


...and Thirst for Righteousness

by cloudsarefluffy



Series: Myths to Legends [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: Alpha Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Death, F/M, Graphic Description, LMAO, Loose mythology, Magic, Werewolf Arthur Morgan, Witches, concepts of death, esp with the second part, every character is practically a mythological creature, i kinda do what i want with it sorryyyyy, inaccurate mythology, plz dont think im also informed about them haha, sorry if this doesnt make sense, the author tried ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudsarefluffy/pseuds/cloudsarefluffy
Summary: A gunshot cracks out, like a losing battle cry, and then, all is plunged into a heavy silence. There are no birds that sing now, no crickets that chirp and call out to one another.The fire before you crackles and the wind blows. Your hand comes up to your face, and you sigh deeply, your shoulders falling.“Things went to utter shit, didn’t they?”Arthur hums dejectedly at your side as your grimy fingers fall away from your face, your eyes now set out and unfocused on the expanse of woods ahead of you both.Since Cornwall’s death, the fine line between myths and humans was crossed in a way that neither side would accept. The humans, they were terrified, thinking Cornwall’s murder was the start to what they now call the Second War.Towns became outposts and sanctuaries, civilians became hunters. What little of society and peace that had once been was charged off in a public outcry for militarization, for revenge.For the man who had given their fears a voice, who had been the face of their desire for survival.Cornwall’s death was truly the birth of what seemed like the apocalypse.





	...and Thirst for Righteousness

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so, I FINALLY got my shit together and finished the second part of our MTL series! I've gotten SO many comments and asks about this series, and I'm really happy to finally put this out here for you guys! I'm pretty positive my Mutual who prompted this fic was about to blue's wiggle through my laptop to make me get my shit together lmao. BUT HERE WE ARE.
> 
> It took a long while, mostly because of daunting plot device choices and overall indecision that I was facing, but thankfully, I managed to get things figured out, and now we're on our path to finishing this long-awaited update, and in turn, this fic series! 
> 
> And, special thanks to one of my anon mutuals on Tumblr for alpha-ing this fic! I'm so sorry it took forever, but I hope that you liked it! (:
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!~

“Do you smell anything?” 

Arthur lifts his snout from the ground, his eyes training on the small cabin ahead of you both, framed at its sides by woods to its left, and a decent little pond that glimmers oddly in the light. The shed to its side has been completely crushed by a fallen tree, and your eyes move to the doorway of the cabin that is nearly blocked by the cascade of pine branches clouding the entrance. 

Your heartbeat is evident down into your fingers, the tips of them pulsing harshly with the heavy, head-fast tempo as you ready your bow and arrow just in case, the silver arrowhead pointed into the dark and what may be lurking within it. The oncoming twilight only adds to the ambiance of it all, and you try and pace your breathing as your palms begin to sweat. 

Arthur takes a few steps forward, haunches lowered and fur jostled lightly in the breeze as he lowers himself down against the ground as he stalks forward. Your eyes don’t leave the doorway, but as Arthur approaches, you shift your focus on them both as his golden coat fades into the darkness. 

You wait, hearing nothing for some moments apart from the chatter of the birds and your steadied breathing, but then there is a crash. You pull back the arrow as a rabbit darts from the cabin and out into the trees, scurrying away and eventually leaving behind the former calm there once was. 

Shortly thereafter, Arthur emerges, no longer shifted and now mostly back into his human form. He’s looking to you as his collarbone pops back into place, and he comes closer to you. There’s something in his arms, and as he gets closer, you see that he’s pulled what looks like a slightly dusty blanket from the cabin, and wrapped it around himself as he approaches. 

“Seems clean, and like it’s been that way for a while now... Whoever lived here left a while back...” 

You pull your bow over your shoulder before dismounting the silver draft that has been with you since the full moon, and you hum. 

“Guess it’ll do for now...” 

You take out your pocket knife, going over to the pine tree to begin working off the branches for firewood. Meanwhile, Arthur goes over to the draft horse, opening up the saddlebags and removing some of your items as you break off branches covered in wilting, brown needles. 

You both work in silence, and as the final tinges of sunlight leave the sky, you sit before your newborn fire, the orange flames offering some illumination as Arthur sits down beside you. 

Wordlessly, he hands you a can of beans with a fork inside, and you eat it numbly while he helps himself to a pack of crackers you’d squared away earlier. 

In the distance, the sounds of screams and gunshots can be heard, almost as though it should be there. As natural as the sounds of birds, as comforting as the chirp of crickets. It has been the backdrop of the world ever since that night some weeks ago, the world as you know it now thrown to chaos. 

“We need somethin’ more than just scraps like this. Especially you...” you say, your tired eyes shifting over to Arthur, to the way he seems thinner than you’d like, the lines of his body starker instead of lean, “I can go huntin’—” 

“You need sleep,” Arthur says softly, his blue eyes moving to yours— there is no anger in them, no sense of dominance, just acknowledgment as your words die in your mouth and your lips press back together, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the toll it’s taken on you too... Me, I’ll be fine. But I wanna make sure you are too.” 

A gunshot cracks out, like a losing battle cry, and then, all is plunged into a heavy silence. There are no birds that sing now, no crickets that chirp and call out to one another. 

The fire before you crackles and the wind blows. Your hand comes up to your face, and you sigh deeply, your shoulders falling. 

“Things went to utter shit, didn’t they?” 

Arthur hums dejectedly at your side as your grimy fingers fall away from your face, your eyes now set out and unfocused on the expanse of woods ahead of you both. 

Since Cornwall’s death, the fine line between myths and humans was crossed in a way that neither side would accept. The humans, they were terrified, thinking Cornwall’s murder was the start to what they now call the Second War. 

Towns became outposts and sanctuaries, civilians became hunters. What little of society and peace that had once been was charged off in a public outcry for militarization, for revenge. 

For the man who had given their fears a voice, who had been the face of their desire for survival. 

Cornwall’s death was truly the birth of what seemed like the apocalypse. 

You and Arthur, since you discovered the abandoned camp of Clemens Point, you have attempted to navigate Lemonye in whatever ways possible on your own. It was easier the first few days, but once word of Cornwall’s death erupted amongst the people a little over a week ago, it was like the world was turned over on its head. 

You’ve lost count of how many bodies you have come across, both human and myth. Of how many lives you have seen destroyed or marred beyond compare as you have moved inch by treacherous inch further north in an attempt to escape Lemoyne. 

You haven’t truly been able to sleep, and you know that your weight has dropped like Arthur’s. But there was no way you could truly sleep, no way you could truly eat after the things you’ve seen, and the things that you know are out there. 

You fear both now— both humans _and_ myths. 

The world has quickly grown from two sides sparring and fighting to everyone turning on one another and trying just to personally survive. You and Arthur, you have been attacked by everyone you have come across, and that was if they were even still alive to do so. Myth, human— you have come across both, dead and alive, and all wanting to kill you if you had the chance. 

The world has gone to hell, with what little semblance of peace there had been before lost to a singular drive for being the one that survives it all. 

“You okay?” 

“M’tired,” you say, voice hollow, and you don’t look Arthur’s way as the werewolf tilts his head at you. 

“You know, givin’ me a half answer just so you don’t have to lie to me straight up ain’t gonna work on me,” Arthur chastises you, and you glance to him, “Your scent’s changed... I can tell you ain’t feelin’ good.” 

Huffing, you roll your eyes lightly, “You know, it ain’t fair that you read me like that.” 

“Then don’t give me a reason to,” Arthur whispers, and your eyes narrow on the flames before you, “I know you ain’t doin’ well, and it ain’t just you bein’ tired.” 

“Well, be honest with me too then,” you gruff back, and your eyes glace upward to where the moon is just a sliver in the sky, “I know you ain’t doin’ great either. We just gotta be honest with each other, ‘cause if we ain’t, we’re just gonna suffer for it. And with the world havin’ gone to shit as it has, that’s the last thing we need.” 

“Fair enough to say...” the alpha werewolf pauses as the gunshots in the distance pause, and he sets his can down, “But you... We don’t know what’s with you. I can just tell...” 

“Tell what?” 

“That you ain’t human no more,” Arthur says, noting how you forgot about your box of crackers a while ago, “I didn’t have to see the metal or anythin’ else that night. You feel... _different._ And like I said, your scent’s changed...” 

“I don’t really feel any different...” glancing to the werewolf, you worriedly ask, “Do I smell bad now?” 

“Nah... You... It’s hard to pin,” he murmurs, not looking at you. 

But you can see how he grips onto the leg of his pants, the roughed-up fabric caught between the taught vice of his fingers. 

“Oh.” 

You feel that tether, the one you noticed the night of the full moon, to Arthur twinge. Like it’s been plucked, almost. You feel like a small fly at the center of the spider’s web, and it’s only a matter of time until you’re truly caught. 

Arthur’s eyes dance up to yours the moment you feel that tie to him vibrate with something you cannot name, and you cannot ignore the way his eyes shift, turning redder and redder with each passing second. 

“Arthur?” 

He ducks his head instantly, and you feel something in you begin to wither from the lack of his attention. He seems to be avoiding eye contact, instead going back to fiddling with his can of beans in place of acknowledging you at his side. 

“Go ahead and set up in what’s left of that cabin... I’ll keep watch while you sleep for a few hours. You’re gonna need it.” 

You want to argue, but your limbs feel like lead, and you somewhat sway on your feet as you rise up. Arthur glances to you, but this time, there is no heat or crimson in his eyes, just concern as you smile weakly at him. 

“I just need rest... I’ll be fine.” 

The werewolf says nothing, but you stumble somewhat past him, and towards where the silver draft waits patiently by the house. 

You grab your canvas roll off of her saddle, and you hum, feeling like you’re working through a haze as your eyes sting. Once the roll is freed, you take it, going through the doorway of the wrecked cabin and placing the bedroll onto the ground until the length of it is splayed before you on the rotting wooden boards of the floor below. 

You lay down into it, head swimming in a way you didn’t expect, and you guess that Arthur was right to some extent. 

You haven’t really been sleeping or eating the past few days, and the wear shows. You feel weak, and a bit hot, and you should know to take better care of yourself— especially in a time like this. 

But it’s a step at a time. And the first you are to take is getting the sleep you need, as your eyes slip closed, and you drift off. 

You feel like you wake a few hours later, in the thick of night. Your body feels as though its made of lead, and your blood nothing more than a vicious oil that churns within you. Sweat coats your skin like a veil, and you raise yourself onto your elbows. 

Directly in front of the door to the cabin is that pond you had seen earlier. In what little moonlight is available, it glistens, almost sparkling in a way you’ve never seen. You go to stand, your body moving far too slow to your liking until it finally complies, and you stumble forward, towards where the water lightly laps along the gravel banks along its circumference. 

Stumbling a bit, you go to the water, almost driven in a fog, a trance of some kind. Your boots instantly soak as you step into the water, feeling your veins thrum and something under your skin sing as you step wade further in, the cool waters now soaking through your worn pants and going up to your knees. 

For the first time since you arrived, you feel clarity. It’s almost as though your fever has lifted, that a sense of rightfulness has been restored in some way. The breath you let out is one of utter relief. 

But as you get to your waist down into the water, there is a sound that stops you cold. 

From in the trees, there is a rustling, and your eyes move to its source to find what is causing it. The water shines almost like an opal around you as your eyes search, and you let out a small breath as you see the origin of the noise. 

A small rabbit is amongst the brush, nose and ears twitching as it nibbles on the grass before it. Its large black eyes are locked onto the world around it, waiting for any sign of movement or danger as it eats. 

But then, your breath catches again. 

What it doesn’t know is that in the bushes a few feet away lingers a large wolf, hungry and stalking from where it has spotted the creature. 

It licks its lips, its sharp canines glistening in the light as the rabbit dips its head down, assuming its safe. 

It is far from it. 

The wolf does not hesitate, leaping forth and teeth snapping at the rabbit. The rabbit reacts as all prey does, running and darting off while the wolf gives chase. 

Right up until the moment it sees you. 

The wolf shudders to a halt, and its eyes move your way, glowing as it stalks from the shroud of darkness as the rabbit scampers off into the brush. Your heart ramps up in tempo, fleeting in a rush as the wolf approaches, stepping out of the trees to be bathed in moonlight. 

Your eyes widen, taking in that familiar, dusty blonde coat— it’s Arthur. 

The wolf throws back his head to let out a ghostly howl, and as you look, you find the moon glowing full and heavy above you before he lowers his muzzle. 

Arthur then stares, and it’s then that you feel the iciness in his gaze. There is no warmth there, no recognition. 

Especially as they flash a bright, clashing shade of violet before he charges. 

_The rabbit shrieks, and so goes being what the wolf desires._

You jolt awake, your clothes clinging to you in a light sheen of sweat. Your throat is dry, and you breathe, feeling the fabric of your shirt plastered against your chest. 

The sun is high in the sky, and you figure it’s about noon as you try to heft yourself out of the bedroll. 

You feel awful, despite all the apparent rest you have gotten, and you feel awful knowing that Arthur has stayed awake this entire time while you have rested. You get your gun belt on somehow, fingers struggling on its clasp and buckle until you finally get it with a small noise of frustration. 

Now somewhat dressed, despite your disheveled state, you head out of the damaged cabin. 

Taking a small breath, you go to the saddle of your draft, and you reach in to grab the jar of the paste you have made, the one that has kept your own and Arthur’s scents hidden as you traveled. You learned very quickly that both humans and other myths alike followed it or sought you out once they had a trail, and so that recipe Hosea had given you what felt like lifetimes ago became a mantra in your head. You’ll need to make a fresh batch soon, but other things take up your focus. 

Swallowing thickly, you put your hand over your eyes to block out the offending sun, and you take a quick glance around camp. There’s no sign of Arthur, except that the fire is alive and well, meaning the werewolf has been through maintaining it regularly. 

Huffing, you head over to it, seeing where a pot for coffee rests by the ashes of the fire. 

It’s a godsend. Burnt and bitter, but still enough to get you a bit back to your senses as you hold the warm mug in your hands. It helps clear your mind just a bit, and you look towards the trees, wondering where Arthur ran off to. You know that he’s prone to shifting and doing patrols, as multiple humans and even myths were intimidated by the sight of the werewolf alone. 

While this spot is a bit secluded, and the damaged cabin has been left forlorn for at least a few months before your arrival, something... something feels off here. You’re not exactly sure as to what, but there is a sinking feeling in your stomach, and the sensation that something is _wrong_ hangs over you like a heavy fog. 

Getting to your feet from where you were crouched, you sway lightly, allowing your instincts to drive you as you pivot and begin to study your surroundings. Despite your haziness, your gaze is sharp, your eyes peering as far as they can into the brush until they are focusing to where you notice a form waiting in the trees. 

“Arthur?” you call out. 

The mass doesn’t move, and your eyes narrow, your hand moving to your gun and where it is holstered at your side. 

And then, there is a crash through the trees. 

Your attention darts over to where the familiar form of a massive wolf shoots out of the brush, ears alert and eyes searching as his nostrils flare from where he is scenting the air. Once you realize that it was only Arthur, your eyes immediately dart back to where there had been a figure among the trees, only for you to find the spot is now vacant and void of whatever or whoever was there. 

You hear Arthur shift back, your attention still locked to where there is nothing but leaves that rustle in the breeze as he approaches you. 

“Rabbit—” Arthur starts, voice gravelly, “You...” 

You feel his hand on you, and his touch burns your skin. You hiss lightly, pulling away from his touch as though it had shocked and burned you all the same. 

The look that crosses Arthur’s face is a strange mixture of emotions: bewilderment, shock, and something else that feels as though his hand had never left your skin. 

You glance to him, eyes meeting his own as they narrow on you. Crimson bleeds over into his irises, and he licks his lips once as you stare back at him, eyes feeling heavy as you shiver. 

Concern takes over his features then, and he takes a hesitant step closer. 

“Rabbit, you okay?” 

“You didn’t find anythin’?” 

“What?” 

You blink, glancing back towards the woods, “You don’t scent anyone? Anything?” 

“All I can scent is that paste on you,” Arthur wrinkles his nose somewhat, “I’d sense if someone or somethin’ else was here, Rabbit... I just hear our heartbeats... Why are you askin’?” 

“Oh... Think... think I’m just seein’ things...” 

Arthur’s brows pinch, and he asks, “You alright?” 

“I...” you breathe, pausing, your mouth held open for a moment before you close it, eyes falling towards the leaf-covered grass below your boots, and you whisper, “I dunno... I ain’t ever felt like this before...” 

“You look pale,” despite how it felt earlier, the alpha takes his hand, and he presses the back of his palm onto your forehead. 

His skin feels like ice there, and you let out a small, grateful noise as you lean into the feeling of his calloused skin against your own. The werewolf all but yanks his hand away in surprise, eyes wide as you stumble back some, knocked back into your senses as your cheeks flush as you refuse to look his way. 

“You’re way too hot,” Arthur looks over to the silver draft hitched by the remains of the cabin, “I need to see if we got medicine...” 

“I-I’m fine—” 

“No, you’re not. Get your ass back into the cabin, and no arguin’ ‘bout it.” 

You comply, sighing as you head back into the cabin to settle down onto your bedroll. 

Despite your initial fight against it, you have to admit that you still feel awful, especially as you work your gun belt off, and you huddle back down into what little padding there is offered as you hear Arthur step inside. 

The man stops abruptly, nostrils flaring and eyes flashing as you look up to him. He seems to tense, muscles flexing as he almost holds his breath. 

Your brows furrow, but you remain from where you lay on the floor, looking up at him. 

“I’m gonna have to find somethin’ for you,” Arthur states, his voice clipped, “But I did find this... Take it.” 

He seems hesitant to approach, and you have to lean forward to reach out to grab the small bottle that he offers, but you see that it is a bottle of bitters, and you sigh as you eye it. About half of it is gone, but you figure that it’s better than nothing as you uncork it. 

“T-Thank you...” 

The werewolf eyes you as you down it, his gaze trained on where your throat flexes as you swallow. Once you’re done, you look at him, a slight scowl on your face from the taste of the concoction. 

Knocking him back into the moment, Arthur clears his throat and takes a step back, brow pinched as he avoids looking at you. 

“I’m gonna have to go towards Emerald Ranch, see if there’s anythin’ I can find there...” he pauses then, glancing back at you, “Do you think you can cover yourself until then?” 

“I should be fine...” 

Arthur still lingers in the doorway, unsure. You can tell he’s warring with himself, but you grab your Colt from your gun belt and place it down at your side. 

“I’m sick, but that don’t mean I don’t know how to fire a gun...” 

“I’ll only be gone for a little bit,” he promises, already getting ready to shift, “Emerald Ranch ain’t that far off from here, I don’t think... But if I hear that gun fire even just one bullet, I’ll be runnin’ straight here.” 

Nodding, you lay back down, “I know...” 

Arthur’s face pinches, but he turns, fluidly shifting from his human form into his wolf. Your eyes linger on the werewolf as he shakes out his limbs, and the heavy sounds of his paws thudding onto the ground are almost like a dulling lullaby as you lay back down onto your bedroll. 

You’re not sure how much time passes, all you know is that the sun drifts in the sky much like you do as you lay there on the ground. You hear some noises from the wildlife outside— a few birds that gather materials for their nest, and there is a squirrel who helps itself, taking the crumbs that were left from your feast last night by the fire. 

Soon, evening approaches, and worry begins to filter through. You haven’t heard much, apart from the sounds of the animals around you, and you sit up, still feeling awful. Moving to the sky, your eyes take stock of how the sun is slipping away further towards the west at your back, turning the once vivid blue of the sky into mixtures of teal and yellow as it sets. And the moon, it’s barely visible, practically a tiny sliver of almost nothing as it rises above the icy peaks of the mountains framing the world to your front. 

Shivering, you get out of your bedroll, gathering up your Colt to go sit by the small pond that you had dreamt about feverishly during the night. The water looks normal, and if anything, dull and dark from where you stare into it, not glistening and alive as it had been in your dream. 

Still, you place your fingers into it, swirling the water around, and letting out a loose breath at the way the water feels cool to your fingers. 

The water remains lifeless apart from your touch, even as the sun sets, and what little there is of the moon rises up to take its claim on the sky. 

As you keep circling the water around, you begin to notice something. There, at the bottom of the water, seems to be something. Your eyes squint, your sweaty brow pinching as it looks almost like something metallic catching a bit of light just right to shine at you. It’s pale and light, and you’re guessing it’s something small going by the size of it all. 

Taking off your boots, your curiosity drives you, and you stand, leaving your Colt on the bank as you go to step in the water. 

“Rabbit, what are you doin’?” 

You turn abruptly, looking over your shoulder to see Arthur staring at you, his confusion as plain on his face as his scowl as you stall at his words. He’s already partially dressed, with his pants and satchel flung over his shoulder, and you break your eyes away. 

“I— . . .” 

You look back at the water, seeing how now, whatever had been at the bottom no longer gleams, and you frown lightly, the water nearly reaching your toes as your hands clench at your sides. 

“I think... I think I’m seein’ things,” you murmur. 

You hear Arthur come up behind you, and you can’t manage to look at him, even as he guides your face with a gentle finger by your chin. 

“Rabbit...” he whispers. 

At your name being plead by him, you look up, your eyes a bit watery as they meet the werewolf’s. 

“I feel like I’m losin’ my mind,” you hiss lightly, and the way Arthur’s face crumples has your throat pulling on itself painfully. 

“You’re just sick,” he says, voice stern in a way that you know is trying to convince and reassure you, “You got a fever. Sometimes you see stuff that ain’t really there, or things seem off... But I got you some medicine, that should help.” 

“O-Okay,” you stutter. 

The alpha goes into his satchel at his side and removes a potent miracle elixir from it. He uncorks it, handing it over to you. 

“I had to look around... A lot of the place had been ransacked already... Found it in the saloon, the one that had been boarded up even before all this mess. I don’t think it’s too old, and it wasn’t opened... It should be okay.” 

You hum, bringing the elixir up to your lips, and you pause to ask, “You didn’t see anyone or anythin’, did you?” 

“No... To be honest, it’s like no one had been there for a little bit. I’m guessing it was even before word got ‘round that Cornwall was dead... All the scents, they was stale. Not even a damn cow was left. It’s like they all up and left at once a bit ago...” 

Kicking the bottle back, you drink the elixir, making a bit of a face at the taste. You down the whole bottle as Arthur watches, his concern evident as you cough at the last bit. 

“Rabbit, I don’t think we should stay here.” 

Tossing the spent bottle to the ground, you wipe at your mouth before regarding the werewolf, “W-Why?” 

“Somethin’... Somethin’ just don’t feel right. And with you bein’ sick, I’d like to get a better spot. Some place safer, and not as open.” 

You take a breath, nodding, “Yeah... I guess... I guess you’re right.” 

“You stay by what’s left of the fire. I’m gonna pack up our stuff quick. Once I’m done, I’ll put you on the draft, and we’ll head out.” 

“But where to?” you ask as the alpha begins to step away, “We’ve been runnin’ around for a little over a week, and we haven’t found nowhere that’s been a good spot for us yet... At least here we’ve been left alone...” 

“I know... But we can try and find somethin’ better,” he says as he disappears into the cabin. 

Leaving you by the pond, you look back at the water as an odd feeling creeps over you. The idea of moving around as you were, hopping place to place, barely eating and sleeping, it unsettles you as you turn back towards the water. 

But you suppose Arthur has a point... something does feel different here. You’re not sure how to describe it, but ever since you had initially come across this place while scouting, you’ve felt almost a buzz under your skin here, and you’re unsure as to why as you grab your boots and finally step away from the pond. 

Sitting on the ground in front of what is left of the dying fire, you place your boots back onto your feet. You can tell the elixir has helped a little, but it’s almost as though it had merely taken the edge off, like whatever has been plaguing you has only been dampened instead of being resolved as you put your boots back onto your feet. 

Only moments later does Arthur emerge from the cabin and you huff as you have to stand, going over to the draft and where Arthur is waiting. 

He helps you onto the saddle, and you take a deep breath, gripping onto the poor mare hopelessly as Arthur steps away from you, taking stock of how well you’re settled onto the saddle. 

“Think you can hold on?” 

“Only... Only if she doesn’t go too fast...” 

Arthur nods, and he steps away, going to put out the rest of the fire. 

“We’ll go at your speed.” 

Once the fire is put out for good, Arthur hums, coming over to you to give you his satchel. 

He steps inside of the cabin, undressing the rest of the way before shifting back into his wolf form. He comes out, his massive form coming through the doorway with his pants held precariously amongst his teeth. You take his pants out of his mouth as they are offered, and you shove it down into one of the draft’s saddlebags. 

Arthur yips at you, and it’s then that you both begin to move. 

As night truly settles in, you lean down against the draft as she gallops leisurely. It’s not too fast of a pace, but you still feel like your stomach is tying into knots as you begin to near Emerald Ranch. In fact, you begin to cough, your stomach heaving some in a way that has you both immediately halting your draft, and that causes Arthur to skid in the grass to a stop. 

The wolf comes to your side instantly, shifting as you lurch over the side of the saddle to empty the contents of your stomach. You feel Arthur’s hands on you then as you lean down towards where you got sick in the grass, and he curses lightly as you shiver against him. 

“You okay?” 

You spit for good measure, but you remain leaned over the side of the saddle, your breaths hitched while your eyes water. 

“I— . . . don’t know...” 

He lets you settle for a minute or two before you’re able to move, and you curse at the way your body somehow feels as fragile as glass yet as heavy as lead at the same time. 

“You can’t travel like this,” Arthur states, almost to himself as he gathers you into his arms, “We’ll just have to set up somewhere close...” 

You place your head into the bared crook of his neck, shutting your eyes as the world swims. 

He whistles for the draft, and he begins to walk, carrying you carefully as you lean into him. 

Some moments later, you hear Arthur sigh, and you look out, your eyes cracking open so that you can take in the remains of Emerald Ranch. 

You can see what Arthur meant by the place being ransacked, as the few homes that lined the roads are busted into and in shambles. The barn amongst the other pastures are all empty, left to rot as Arthur approaches the last two-story house at the end of the road. 

“This place looked the best outta all of ‘em, in terms of state... Think this was the ranch owner’s place...” 

You take in the stakes that were once growing tomatoes, lining the side of the dirt path that leads to the porch just like the chipped, white picket fence. All of the plants have now withered, and weeds and grass grow rampant from where they were once forbidden. The same goes for the small plot in front of the house, the various plants there wilted and dried out with nature quickly regaining the control of her soil. You look up to the house itself, taking in its slightly worn-down state. The top floor’s windows are boarded and nailed shut, and they have been for a little while going by the gray rain-warped boards lining its windows. It doesn’t bode well, considering. 

The house is dark and looming as Arthur goes up the steps of the porch, and he uses his foot to push the front door in. The draft stops right by the porch, and you glance back to her as she watches both you and Arthur disappear into the house, the door swinging closed behind you. 

It’s almost impossible to see inside the house, but for Arthur, there is no issue. He maneuvers you both through the main floor until you are going into one of the back rooms in the house, particularly into a bedroom at the back end. It is pitch black inside, with the air seemingly stagnant as Arthur approaches a double bed tucked away in the corner, and he sets you down onto it. 

The mattress dips under your weight, and you’re grateful for its comfort as the world swirls lightly with the movement. Stepping back some, Arthur kneels down, coming down to your level to where he rubs a few fingers through your sweaty hair with a curse whispered underneath his breath. 

“Lemme get things settled, and I’ll be right back, okay?” 

“Okay...” you murmur. 

Your eyes slip shut then, and the alpha stands, stepping out of the room to go do what he deemed necessary. 

Drifting in and out of consciousness, you occasionally hear the werewolf moving about, but you remain in the bed, finding the covers and pulling them over yourself as you shiver. 

Eventually, Arthur settles things well enough, and he comes back into the room. Your eyes crack open drearily, and you take in the sight of the werewolf now fully dressed, and he comes forth with what looks like a cup of coffee in one hand, while there is a lantern burning dully in the other. 

“Don’t think this can really help an upset stomach, but it’s all I got that can be warmed up right now...” he murmurs, kneeling down at the bedside as he sets the lantern onto the nightstand beside you, “I’ll try and catch somethin’, see if I can make you a stew. Would ya like that?” 

You nod, making a small noise as you go to grab at the coffee. Arthur chuckles lightly, watching as you lean up against the headboard to take a few grateful sips. 

“Place looks clean... The upstairs is boarded off, but everythin’ else looks alright... I found a few cans left in the cupboards. If I catch a rabbit, you think it would be a problem for ya?” 

Swallowing, you shake your head minutely, “Nah... That sounds nice...” 

“You’re already lookin’ a bit better,” Arthur murmurs, and he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “Don’t worry, you’re gonna be fine.” 

Humming, your eyes slip closed as Arthur takes the cup of coffee back, “I think you’re the one who’s really worryin’...” 

“It’s my job to,” he whispers, and he moves you to settle back into the bed, “Now get some rest... I’ll try and have a stew done for when ya wake.” 

You hear the werewolf stand, and as he steps away, you call after him. 

“Arthur?” 

The muffled footfalls from his boots cease, and you peek your eyes open at him. 

His face is lit up gently in the lanternlight, and you can see the worry etched into his skin. But also, his fatigue. Dark circles line under his eyes, and you can see how bloodshot they are. You don’t think he’s slept in a little over a day, and you feel a wave of guilt wash over you. 

“Could you do me a favor?” 

Arthur nods, taking a few steps closer to you, “’Course.” 

“Don’t forget to take care of yourself too,” you murmur, already falling asleep. 

And it’s as he frowns that you are lost to the world, finally slipping unconscious as the werewolf looks over you, just as he promised.

**\---**

When you wake, the sun is beginning to rise. The lantern at your bedside still burns lowly, and you stretch, feeling your joints pop deliciously. Your head still swims, but you do feel a little better as you place your feet on the floor and stand.

Still clammy and hot, you grab onto the lantern and walk slowly out of the room, the inside illuminated faintly by the lantern, and the first rays of sunlight beginning to tinge the sky outside. It’s a pale almost unearthly blue, and you feel like you’re almost in purgatory as you step into one of the main rooms. 

You find Arthur splayed on a couch, hat over his eyes and arms crossed as he sleeps. A small smile quirks your lips, and you shuffle past him to where the kitchen resides off to the side. 

The stove is still warm from where Arthur set a fire inside to brew the coffee earlier, and you hum, taking note of the stew that steams in a pot on its top. 

Grabbing a bowl, you go to eat some, your stomach twisting almost painfully in hunger. You don’t feel queasy as you did last night, and so you only hesitate to blow on each spoonful as you eat. 

You’re about halfway through the pot when Arthur wakes, somewhat jolting up from the couch as he swivels his head towards you. You bite back a laugh as his hat covers half his face before he removes it, but he seems to calm as he takes in the sight of you. 

“You seem to be feelin’ better,” he mutters, voice rough from sleep as he stretches, his shoulders popping. 

You glance down at your bowl of stew, humming, “A little. Still feel off.” 

“Maybe that medicine helped a little, despite you coughin’ it up,” Arthur suggests, and your eyes move to him as he stands, getting off of the couch and walking over to you then, “How’s the stew?” 

“It’s great,” you say truthfully, “I’ve kinda been a pig with it...” 

“Nah. That’s a good thing. You ain’t really been eatin’ the past few days,” Arthur stops at the doorway to the kitchen, and he leans against the wood there. 

Looking to the stew, you murmur, “You haven’t either...” 

“I’ll eat in a minute.” 

“You gotta take care of yourself to take care of me,” you point out, and you don’t miss the way the corner of Arthur’s lips twitch at that, “I told you last night, and I meant it.” 

Sighing, the werewolf gives in, heading over to grab a bowl for himself at the stove to your right. He ladles a bit of the stew into the bowl before grabbing a spoon, and as he retreats back to the doorway, he grabs a bit, putting it into his mouth and raising a brow as he finally meets your eyes. 

“Happy?” he says. 

“Eat more, and I will be.” 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no ire behind it. You’ve quickly learned how Arthur is, appearing to be as prickly as a cactus, but truly, he was as soft as silk under that guise. 

“How did you sleep?” he asks then. 

“I didn’t dream, so pretty well, I’m guessing.” 

He hums, nodding, “Good.” 

“What about you?” 

He shrugs, and despite you figuring he only got a few hours, he looks much better for it, “About as good as I could, with everythin’ goin’ on.” 

Nodding, you look down at your stew. You pause, the words you want to say stilling on your tongue as you think them over. After idling with your spoon in your stew for a few more seconds, you look back up to the werewolf. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“What on earth for?” he asks as your eyes drop down to your feet. 

“For bein’ sick. You’ve been havin’ to deal with so much on your own, and I—” 

You hear his bowl clatter lightly on the counter beside you, and when you look up, he’s right in front of you. Arthur’s face is set in a light scowl, and he takes your bowl, setting it aside. You wonder what he is doing until he goes to cup your face, looking you dead in the eye. 

“There is nothin’ you gotta be sorry for,” he says, and the way his voice is steeled, you know that there is no room for argument there, “You can't control what your body does, or how the world is right now. Don’t fault yourself for that.” 

Your hand comes up, your fingers wrapping loosely around his left wrist, “I just want you to be okay, too... You ain’t been alright the last few days either...” 

“Rabbit, it’s the new moon. I’m always gonna be a little off because of it...” he explains, “It ain’t nothin’ you’ve done.” 

“You sure?” 

He nods, and both of your hands fall back to your sides, “I usually can’t sleep because of a new moon, and I don’t tend to eat as much... Hosea says it makes me grouchy like Grimshaw, too... I promise that you bein’ sick ain’t puttin’ me in a hard place.” 

“If it is, would you tell me?” 

“Only if you made me,” Arthur murmurs, looking down at you, “But even then, I don’t think I would.” 

“You wouldn’t. You’re too proud for that,” you smile lightly. 

Arthur smiles back. 

And it’s like, for just that moment, that everything is alright. That the world hasn’t gone mad, and that the gang hasn’t been lost to you both. It’s almost like before when Arthur was trying to make you feel comfortable when your world fell apart, and you were just adjusting with all of the change after he had taken you back in. 

His eyes soften then, his own thoughts churning about his mind as he looks at you, and your breath catches. The air between you feels as though it’s almost combustive, and all it needs is a small spark to ignite. You wonder, as Arthur’s hand comes up to caress your cheek, if that is all it needed. 

You feel that connection from before, that tether you felt the night of the full moon. That invisible line drawing you to one another in a way that has your breath catching. 

But before anything can happen, you hear something fall upstairs. 

Arthur immediately scowls, turning towards the ceiling as your breath catches in your throat. All is silent for a few moments, but you can see how Arthur focuses, trying to focus on what is happening upstairs. 

“Wait here...” he whispers to you after a moment. 

You watch as the alpha turns towards a doorway to your left, his feet stepping in a way to muffle his movements as he focuses on whatever is upstairs. Your heart ticks, especially as Arthur disappears from the doorway to round the corner. 

Cautiously, you follow, keeping your steps light and quiet to watch as the alpha begins to ascend the stairs leading to the upper floor. He senses you then, turning and motioning with a stern expression to stay where you are before he goes back to ascending the stairs. 

Some steps above him, you see what the werewolf meant by the fact that the upstairs was barricaded. There is a door at the top of the steps, but it is boarded shut with weathered pieces of wood that seem to have been nailed into the frame for some time. Even from where you cling to the doorway leading into the kitchen, you can see the rust encrusting the exposed iron heads of the nails, their bright, burnt orange color now stark as the early morning light filters in from the window behind you. 

Arthur stops then, seeming to consider his choices as he braces his shoulder against the door. You see the series of thoughts flash over his face in quick succession, and the air in the house grows thick with your apprehension as you watch the man tense up before ramming his shoulder against the boarded-up door. 

The old wood snaps, cracking and splintering as the door breaks through its jam, and Arthur wastes no time to rush into the upstairs. Thinking better of it, you run back to your room, your stomach churning on itself as you go to grab your colt from your gun belt as you hear muffled noises from upstairs. 

There is a heavy fall and a growl that resonates through the walls, and you grip tightly onto the Colt in your hands as you rush back to the bottom of the stairs. Skipping every other step, you hear Arthur roar, the walls of the house shaking from its reverberation as you come upon the last step. Your skin tingles, almost as though electricity is in the air as you raise your Colt, aiming it to be at the ready as you begin to scout the second floor for the werewolf. 

Your eyes catch on a door to a room, and instead of wooden boards, this one is covered in locks. From chains to ones that slide into place, and your stomach sinks at their presence as you take in its ajar state, and the flash of movement behind it. 

You kick it open the rest of the way, finding Arthur pinning a girl to the floor. His fangs are extended as he snarls at her, eyes red and full of fury as he raises a hand, his nails growing out as he pins the girl beneath him to the floor with the other. It’s a feral sight to see, and your eyes dart to the girl cowering below him. 

She’s young, a little younger than you. Most likely eighteen or so, possibly only twenty, dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt, and a maroon skirt that extends from her hips down to the leather boots around her ankles. Her skin is almost as fair as her pale, blonde hair, almost as though she has seen no sun as she eyes Arthur in panic. 

“Arthur!” 

“She’s got magic,” he tells you, growling, “She’s a god damn witch!” 

Your eyes move down to her neck, and you see a small rock pendant adorning a chain, resting loosely against her collar as it rises and falls with her rapid breathing. It’s pale and opaque, appearing similar to an opal and shimmering in a way that almost entrances you. It glows, and the inside shifts and glimmers almost as though it were a piece of the night sky trapped inside of glass. 

“I— I’m a white witch!” she states, looking over to you pleadingly, “I’m not into dark magic!” 

“I don’t trust witches,” Arthur grits out, practically seething. 

“Neither did my father,” she states, breathing, “I lived here! This is my room! I’m— I’m Eugune Wegner’s daughter, Miriam! He owned Emerald Ranch!” 

Arthur still looks distrustful, “I can’t hear your heartbeat... In fact, I can’t hear anythin’... Why is that?” 

“It’s the moonstone,” her hand snakes between her and Arthur, shaking as it goes and she places it sheepishly between her fingers, “I enchanted it... It helps keep me hidden...” 

“Take it off,” he orders. 

She does as instructed, pulling the moonstone from her neck. The shift in the air around her is almost immediate, even to the extent in which you can sense it as she takes a deep breath. She feels normal now, instead of like a buzz under your skin. Even Arthur seems to lose some of his tension, and he narrows his eyes at her. 

“You’re Miriam Wegner,” he says, “the girl that got locked up here that people always talked about?” 

“Yes,” she says, her voice unflinching despite her obvious nerves, “My... My dad knew I was inclined to magic... My mother, she was a witch too. He didn’t know until after they had married and I was born... They burned her for it.” 

You swallow thickly as Arthur curses, removing his hand, but still eyeing Miriam cautiously as she leans up on her elbows, taking deep breaths with the newfound space between her and the werewolf. 

“Why didn’t they burn you?” Arthur asks bluntly. 

Miriam makes a small face at that, “They didn’t know I could do magic... My father locked me up. He always had a suspicion. Guess they were okay with me bein’ alive if I didn’t have a life to live. I was a prisoner here for almost my whole life...” 

You lower your Colt entirely then, your eyes not leaving Miriam as Arthur stands, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve been stuck in here this whole time...” 

“No, I haven’t,” she says, and your brows furrow as she goes on to explain, “Things soured here long before whatever it is that set the rest of the world into chaos. The reason everyone left is because I learned magic, despite all that they did to prevent it.” 

“What kind of magic?” 

Arthur looks to you then, his face scrunching up at your voiced curiosity. 

“Nothing spectacular... White magic, it’s nothin’ like what they think it is. It’s natural, pure magic... But the term witch to them means nothin’ more than curses or dark spells,” she quiets some, “I happened to learn how to use my moonstone, and they all acted as though I summoned a demon into their home.” 

Snorting, Arthur crosses his arms and leans against the wall, “I know a demon. They ain’t all they’re cracked up to be either.” 

“_Arthur,_” you chastise lightly. 

Miriam looks between you two for a moment until her eyes settle on you, and you shift a bit under her gaze. 

“What myth are you?” she asks. 

“Excuse me?” 

She takes a step forward, but Arthur stops her. He comes in front of you, growling in warning that has her pulling back and swallowing thickly. 

“Arthur, stop it—” 

“I’m sorry,” Miriam murmurs, looking to the floor and twiddling her hands, “I... I sometimes may be a bit more forward than I intend... I never got to socialize much, let alone with other myths.” 

“Ignore him,” you watch as Arthur shoots you a look, and you pointedly refrain from acknowledging him to address Miriam, “You asked me what myth I was... Why?” 

Miriam's eyes look through her lashes to you, and she murmurs, “I can feel an aura coming off of you. It’s kinda like with magic. I have one, and it’s like static electricity... But yours... It feels different. Like... like I’m—” 

“Like drownin’ and breathin’ all at once,” Arthur murmurs. 

You look at the werewolf then, your surprise evident at his admission. 

“I’ve never felt an aura like yours... It’s like nothin’ I’ve read about, either.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Miriam’s face flushes a little, “I have my mother’s books. My father didn’t know about them until they all found out I had discovered how to use my magic, and by then it was too late... She hid journals under the floorboards here in my room, alongside this moonstone necklace, like she somehow knew...” her fingers trace the smooth stone before she dons it again, having it now rest between the juts of her collar, “It took me years to even get it to work.” 

Shaking your head, you rub at your brow as you breathe roughly. 

“You alright?” Miriam asks. 

“I ain’t feelin’ too hot,” you admit. 

Arthur comes over to your side, whispering, “You need to head back downstairs?” 

You’re about to reply when Miriam comes forth, “Maybe I could help?” 

Arthur turns to face her, shoulders squaring up, “And by help, what do you mean?” 

“My mother had a few recipes in her journal. Like tonics, but better,” Miriam perks a little, “I could brew one up for you! See if it helps you!” 

Arthur growls lightly, “Why should we trust what you make?” 

Miriam’s slight smile falls, and her voice quiets some in the face of Arthur’s hesitancy, “I promise I’m only tryin’ to help... I’ve... I’ve never met any other myths, aside from you both. My entire life, I’ve been shut in this room with everyone outside of it hating me in ways I could never understand... And then, when I figured out what it was that they hated about me so for, they all ran and left me here...” she glances at both of you then, “I’m not like them.” 

Arthur still seems a bit distrusting, but he lowers his guard some, “Well, you drink a sip, and we’ll call it even.” 

“Of course,” she agrees, “If that’s what it takes.” 

You glance to Arthur, but you sigh, relenting, “Okay... Guess that settles it then...” 

“I’ll get my herbs!” Miriam grins, and she moves past you both, a slight skip in her step that has part of you feeling pity for her. 

You look after her as she goes downstairs, right up until Arthur grips onto your arm. 

“I don’t trust her,” he murmurs to you, “She was up here. Maybe even the entire time while we were downstairs...” 

“She could’ve waited to see if we were gonna hurt her,” you point out under your breath. 

“Yeah, but the door? It was intact, Rabbit,” Arthur then points to the window sills and where they are also nailed shut as the door was, the weathered metal just as rusted and untouched as the others, “And she didn’t get out or in through there. She ain’t bein’ truthful.” 

“Okay... Just... We’ll go about it slow. Gauge her out.” 

Arthur curses, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his greasy hair, “I don’t like a single damn bit of this...” 

“I can tell...” 

You both begin to head towards the door that had been blocking the stairwell when Arthur whispers to you, “We just have to entertain her. Magic, it’s a nasty thing, Rabbit, ‘specially if who’s usin’ it ain’t up to no good. She may say she’s just a white witch, but I got a feelin’ that she ain’t exactly what she says she is.” 

You hum, unsure of what to say as Arthur descends the stairs before you, and you grip onto the worn length of railing under your clammy hands. 

“First chance we got? We get outta here...” 

You nod in agreement, and you both get to the bottom of the stairs then. 

In the kitchen, Miriam hums a song. She bustles about, a satchel of her own opened up on the counter. You see where she’s working with ginseng and a few other herbs laid out upon the counter. The odd thing is that they are fresh, as though they were just picked. With the state of the door and windows to her room, you know that it was strange for her to have gotten anything in such a state. 

Looking to Arthur, you can see the same thought cross his mind as his eyes meet your own in a split second before he rolls his shoulders, looking to Miriam as she uses a different pot for her concoction. The water is already steaming from where she has relit the stove, and she places some of the ginseng inside, humming lightly still. 

You stand at her back alongside Arthur, silent as you are apprehensive as you watch Miriam rip the leaves off of her sprig of yarrow to place down into the steaming pot of water. As she drops the last one into it, she reaches for a wooden spoon, taking it to stir the mixture as her humming stops mid tune. 

“You know, you are really the first people to come through here for a long time,” she murmurs, and the only sound you can hear is the toiling of her brew in the pot, and the scrape of the wooden spoon against the cast iron, “Kinda thought no one would ever come by.” 

“If we had any other options, we probably wouldn’t have,” Arthur says, and you swallow thickly as you watch Miriam’s back. 

“Well, I’m glad you did! Lord knows how long I would’ve waited for someone to show up and open that door so I could finally get out,” she says, her voice turning a bit— growing colder and more detached than you’ve ever heard it, “My father liked to say I would die in there, when he and the others tried to leave... It was really satisfyin’ to watch them die first.” 

The air grows cold, and that feeling of electricity ramps up like never before. It feels as though lightning was about to strike, and the hairs on your arm stand on end as your breath forms a cloud in front of you. 

Arthur snarls, and as soon as he does, all of the doors and windows slam shut in a deafening way, the whole house shaking down its foundation as Miriam turns, her smile as cold as the air as the necklace she wears glows white against her pale skin. 

“Shoulda killed ya when I had the chance!” Arthur growls. 

“Like you even could, mutt,” she seethes, “Many have tried. None succeeded.” 

Her eyes shift to you, crinkling at the corners dangerously, and you feel your stomach clench on itself. 

“Now you... You’re quite somethin’, aren’t ya—” 

Arthur goes to step in front of you then, “She ain’t none of your concern—” 

Miriam holds out her hand, and Arthur freezes in place. His brows furrow and he tries to move further, but it is almost like an invisible wall is in front of him. Cursing, his fangs lengthen, and he glares daggers at Miriam as he snarls. 

“Dogs like you need to be kept on lengths of chain,” Miriam huffs, and she turns her back to the stove, raising her hand then and flicking it at the wrist. 

Whatever Miriam had done keeps Arthur away from you both, and it pulls you closer as it moves him back, taking him out of the kitchen to go back into the lounge room while the pressure at your back drives you closer to Miriam. 

You can hear Arthur and his protest, but it’s almost muffled. It's as if the barrier Miriam had summoned puts you both into your own little bubble as she begins humming again. 

You watch, your tongue frozen in your mouth as the force at your spine disappears, leaving you about two feet behind the witch as she lifts her wooden spoon from the pot. 

Wafting it a bit, she makes a noise of satisfaction before placing the spoon back into the pot, her other hand disappearing into her satchel as she glances to it. 

“I was honest when I said that I had been locked away in that room for some time. I just didn’t explain exactly how that worked out,” she states easily, her hand now coming back out with an herb you have never seen before, “Funny thing, magic. It can get you whatever you want if you desire it enough.” 

Your hands clench at your sides as you murmur, “Thought you said you was a white witch?” 

“Oh, I am! I never have practiced dark magic, but that isn’t for a lack of wanting to,” Miriam giggles as she looks at you over her shoulder, “I just haven’t had the right opportunity. Until now, of course.” 

Your heart falters some as she picks one branch off of the herb, its leaves glistening with what almost looks like a teal sheen as it refracts in the light of the sun coming in from the kitchen window, and she drops it into the pot. The water simmers hotter for some moments, and the air grows thick with a musky, almost metallic scent before it dissipates, and Miriam hums out of satisfaction before stirring her mixture again. 

“My mother, she died when I was very young. About two from what I was told. I don’t remember her from that time... Ever since I was a little girl, my father locked me up. He couldn’t kill his own daughter, but he knew what I was. What I was capable of. He never stopped the folk here in the ranch from sayin’ the cruel things they did, or tellin’ me that one day I’d burn just like my mother, little did they know...” 

Miriam grins, removing her pot off of the stove and onto the old cutting board beside the stove. Once it is placed, she faces you, eyes alight in a way that doesn’t bode well. 

Especially as the door to the house opens, and a cloaked figure steps in. 

You turn, paling as the hooded figure stops in the threshold of the kitchen doorway as the door slams behind them. They stand for a moment, silent and waiting before they slowly begin to pull back their hood. 

There stands a woman, scarred up to her neck, her eyes as orange as the flames that were have said to have burned her however long ago. On her neck is also a stone, much similar to Miriam’s. However, hers almost looks cracked, and it is darker. It does not appear as light or celestial as Miriam’s, but clouded and corrupted. 

She offers a tight smile to you, her raven hair framing her face as though it were a hood of its own. 

“I see you have met my daughter, Miriam,” she says, her voice almost ethereal as she dips her chin at you. 

“They let me out, mama! They broke the enchantment!” Miriam says excitedly behind you, “That dumb wolf barged in and did the honors!” 

“At least he proved useful,” the woman chuckles, her eyes still lingering on you, “Suppose it’s time for you to do the same.” 

Your eyes widen, but before you can react, you feel something hit you at the back of your head. Despite the muffling, you hear Arthur’s roar to the side, and the older, scarred woman tuts as you crumple to the floor. 

“Now Miriam, not too hard. We need her pliable,” the woman explains, and when she goes to you, she places a hand on your skin, the touch feeling _wrong_ as she takes a deep breath. 

“What is it, mama?” 

“She’s... She isn’t something I’ve ever come across,” the woman murmurs. 

“She isn’t?” 

“No... This is... No, it... Can it be?” her disbelief is evident as your head swims, the room moving blurrily as you glance to her. 

Miriam looms over you both, looking rather perturbed as her mother’s face drawls in a scowl. 

“Plans have changed,” she murmurs. 

Miriam looks to her mother then, her face falling, “What do you mean—” 

“I said they changed,” the woman is stern, looking to her daughter and leaving no room for argument, “Do not be an insolent little girl about it. We need to get her to the pond, and I will explain everything to you then.” 

Miriam looks far from pleased, but she does not argue as she places the strap of her satchel over her shoulder, “What about the wolf?” 

“Bring him too,” she sighs, her hand tightening on your arm, “I can feel their bond... If we are to do anything at all with her, we will need him to do so.” 

“Then who do I use this potion on?” 

“Both of them,” the older witch cradles your face then, her touch soft while her eyes are calculating, “It’ll be easier to start the process while they are both unconscious.” 

Miriam steps aside and returns a few moments later, holding a cup and offering it to the other witch. Lifting your head gently, her mother brings the cup to your lips, tilting it to where the foreign and hot liquid crests your lips and up to your mouth. You cough, spluttering and forced to swallow as it invades your throat, tasting like iron and salt as it goes. 

Deeming your portion enough, Miriam’s mother relents with the potion, pulling it back from your lips as your eyelids begin to feel heavy. 

“Rest now,” she murmurs gently, a hand brushing strands of your hair from the clammy skin of your forehead, “Worrying is for when you’re awake.” 

Your eyes flutter shut, a deep, overwhelming sense of exhaustion comes over you, as engulfing as a high tide until you are lost to its pull.

**\---**

Your limbs feel heavy as consciousness returns to you, slow and uneasy, in a sluggish manner. The taste of the potion you were made to drink lingers on your tongue just as fatigue lingers in your eyes as you force them open. The room is dark, too dark at first, and you have to narrow your eyes to allow them to adjust before you’re able to take in your surroundings.

You can hear the wind from outside, and you glance upward, your head resting against something hard as you take in the hole in the ceiling. It is aged, with ivy and moss hanging around the edges of it and trailing downward, shifting slightly in the breeze that carries through. It gives you the perfect view between the thick tree branches that surround it of the sky. The moon, it isn’t visible now, having disappeared and waned until it was lost among the darkness, and you faintly shudder while you tilt your head down to the opposite wall of the room from you. 

You seem to be in a cabin of sorts, with the room itself mostly barren. However, against the wall opposite of you appears to be a complicated set up of tables and various items. It almost appears as an alter with a large cast-iron pot in the middle, with two tables at its sides. The arrangement is surrounded by ghostly white skulls ranging from a deer to even a rodent’s, their sockets almost gazing upon you as you stare. Candles are melted to the point where their wax has followed along the lines of the table underneath them, their once hot rivulets cooled and framing the wood and reaching to the wooden floor of the room below. 

The cast-iron pot in the middle is warmed by blue flame, its appearance unnatural and unearthly as it licks along the curves of black metal. The flames are heating whatever is inside to the point where you can hear the viscous liquid inside simmering to the point of almost boiling. The mystery concoction also glows, illuminating the rim of the pot in a ghostly, pale green hue, and offering enough light for you to make out the runes drawn in white chalk along the wall above it. 

You try to move, finding that you are on a table, the wood of it harsh against your back. Your muscles protest, especially as you try to lift your arms and legs, only to find that they are chained to the table below. 

Making a small noise of panic, you lift your head, your attention swiveling quickly about the room as adrenaline lifts the rest of your haggard fog. You open your mouth, your throat dry and voice hoarse as you go to call out. 

“A-Arthur!?” 

You feel the tether between you and the werewolf, but it feels fainter than usual. Still, it is a relief that it is still there. 

Because, much to your relief, it means that Arthur is still alive. 

As you let out a deep, shaky breath, the door behind you opens. Straining, you lean your head back, throat pulling taught as you attempt to look at where Miriam comes into the room first, followed by her mother. 

Your throat goes dry as you see Arthur coming in behind them both. He is chained in silver, the skin around the blasted metal raw and red, blistering up in such an ugly manner as he pulls back against his chains. His shirt is ruined, torn at the buttons on his chest and bloodstained, the fabric as shot as it is loose against his frame as Miriam’s mother yanks on the leather-covered end of chain as though it were a leash, forcing Arthur to his knees near the foot of the table that you are bound to. 

His hair falls in front of his face, as wild and untamed as the man is himself as his eyes flash a bright crimson in the dark, locking onto yours as he whines against the fabric gag put into his mouth. You see the look in his eyes, even as Miriam walks past the side of the table and towards the pot across the room while her mother digs her knee into the back of Arthur’s spine as she pulls the chain, causing him to arch backward from where his arms have been chained behind his back. 

There is also a collar around his neck, the silver searing his skin as he groans against the gag in his mouth. Swallowing thickly, you watch as Arthur glares as Miriam’s mother as their eyes meet, and the corner of her red lips quirk with amusement. 

“Quite the pet you got here,” she hums, and with her free hand, she takes a finger, her long nail caressing the jut of Arthur’s cheekbone approvingly, “I can see why you keep him around.” 

“S-Stop,” you choke out, pulling at your own binds and feeling the strain from their resistance as Miriam’s mother chuckles at your protest. 

“Hm. Don’t like me touching what’s yours? Sure he feels the same way.” 

The older witch sighs, bringing the length of silver chain down to where there is a hook on the floor. She attaches Arthur’s chain to it, pulling him back some and forcing him to lean upright in an awkward position. You can see the strain on his body, his muscles trembling from having to bend and stay as straight as he is, and the look he sends the witch’s way is murderous. 

She walks past him then, her black robe framing her still and moving as elegantly as she does as she approaches you. Her eyes narrow as she leans down, inspecting your wrist to where the chains hold you in place. 

Cautiously, she brings her hand down to it, and as soon as her skin makes contact with the metal, she hisses, her fingertips reddening and turning raw much like Arthur’s skin as she retracts them, sliding them under the sleeve of her robe. 

“No reaction to silver,” she murmurs, regarding you oddly, “But I know that you are not human.” 

Your breath stutters in your lungs as she comes in close, and you hear Arthur growl against the fabric muffling him. 

“Have you died once before this? Or have you been on the very brink of death and pulled back from its edge?” 

Your eyes widen, and she gauges your confusion, “No! I’ve never—” 

“You had to. There’s no way you could be what you are now if you hadn’t,” she looks over to where Miriam stands by the altar at the end of the room in waiting, “Bring me the tome on Mythos.” 

Miriam moves then, going to where a stack of books resides on one of the two tables framing her brew. She sets the first two off to the side, grabbing the one that is underneath and carrying the hefty book over to her mother. 

“If my suspicions are correct, you are not just any myth. In fact, you’re almost not a myth at all,” she hums, opening the tome. 

She flips through the aged pages, the paper soft and yellowed with age. Miriam’s brows are pinched as she watches her mother’s scarred hands navigate the entries until she stops at the very last section. 

“_One of the strongest deities yet known, with powers and abilities far beyond that of magic, both white and dark, and are only to appear when the living world is in need of balance,_” Miriam’s eyes widen then as her mother continues, “_With the ability to control the elements in line with the laws of nature, as well as to mold life into death and death into life, this being was once a mortal, human soul that has walked the line of the veil, having not crossed between the land of the living and the Beyond. It is a soul that returns within the veil of death once they were returned to the plane of the living, and were brought back without the aid or corruption of dark magic._” 

Miriam’s breath is a bit shaky as she looks to her mother, “But that’s about impossible...” 

“But it is not impossible,” her mother runs a finger down the page, reading the description further, “She does not react to silver, and I can sense the power that radiates from her, even as muted as it is... And at the pond, I could see the moonstone reacting to her without the aid of any ritual.” 

You look between them both, especially as Miriam grows irritated, grabbing the tome from her mother to begin reading it herself, “But how could she have been brought back to the livin’ without dark magic? After all, it’s the only reason you’re still alive! I’ve never heard of it happenin’ without it!” 

“That is because only two myths can achieve such a goal with only pure intent. It is rare to come across either, let alone to receive their help.” 

“And they are?” Miriam grits out. 

“She was either saved by an angel or a Pheonix.” 

_Lenny._

You think back to the night when fighting with Cornwall, how you had felt yourself slipping until the moment that Lenny offered his tear to you. 

The realization has you gasping somewhat, and Miriam and her mother take note. 

“Seems she remembers now,” Miriam’s mother comes close, cupping your face, “My dear, you are quite the gift to receive. I am so sorry that we have committed these acts against you.” 

Miriam makes a noise then, looking almost disgusted at her mother’s apology, “Why are you sayin’ sorry?” 

“Because, she is a _blessing,_ Miriam. We have waited some time for another like her to appear.” 

“What are we goin’ to do with her? Because we can’t complete my ritual now!” Miriam’s voice is as shrill as she is perturbed, “It says here that the only way she could be killed is by her bonded, and we know for a fact he won’t do that!” 

Your expression at those words causes her mother to look back at her, her anger as swelling as the sparks in the air of the room, “You _ignorant_ little girl! She is beyond you and me! Beyond all of this! We are fools for even attempting such a thing!” 

“Then what about the werewolf? We could still use him!” 

“No. He is protected by her. Even on the night of the new moon, she is more dangerous than you could ever imagine or manage to be, even with dark magic.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Miriam goes to step aside, breaking off from her mother, only to be gripped by the arm by the older witch, causing Miriam’s face to grow tense with her fury as she rips her arm free of her mother’s grasp, “Get off of me you mangled bitch—” 

The sound of her mother’s hand hitting Miriam’s cheek is stark in the room, and you still against your binds on the table. 

Miriam turns her head slowly, her cheek already reddening as her shock is as plain on her face. Her mouth is held agape, her eyes lightly watering as she eyes her mother. 

“Y-You—” her voice cracks, “You said you’d never hurt me like them...” 

“You are greedy just as you are naïve,” her mother hisses, “I have done so much for you— nearly dying by flames at the stake, giving you your powers, guiding you... I spent years waiting for you to finally get free of the prison your father locked you in, and I never once left you... But, I will not let all of my dedication go to vain for your foolishness! This here is done!” 

“But mother—” 

“_ENOUGH!”_

The older witch had swept her hand across the room, killing the blue flames and silencing even the crickets that had sung outside. The air remains stagnant and tense, and the scarred witch lowers her hand down to her side until her marred flesh disappears amidst the dark cloth draping her. 

“You are not ready to become anything more than what you already are,” her mother seethes, “Even a corrupted witch has various morals and rules we must follow, as magic is only an extension of something much larger than ourselves. This is one of them. And if you cannot respect that, then you are to be no witch at all.” 

Her mother grips onto the necklace from Miriam’s collar, causing the girl to gasp as the chain breaks. The stone’s light falters, flickering and dying out almost like a candle’s flame as it is choked. 

“Y-You— _you—”_ Miriam’s face crumples, “I’ll _kill_ you!” 

Miriam rushes forward then, hands and nails going to scrape at her mother. But like she had done to Arthur back at the house of the ranch, Miriam is stopped instantly, her face going slack as she realizes what is happening. 

Instead of Miriam only being stopped by the force of her mother’s magic, she is detained by it. Lengths of chain come up from the floor, piercing through the wood as they snake and wrap around Miriam then. She screams, thrashing at the binds that quickly lock her in place on the floor. 

With a flick of her fingers, a gag much like Arthur’s crosses over and into Miriam’s mouth, muffling her curses and cries as she fights against her newfound imprisonment. 

“You will do no such thing,” her mother tells her, voice cold but also detached, and you see the flicker of pain that crosses her face as the chains drag Miriam to where the wooden floor crumbles away, “You are not ready.” 

Miriam screams, pulling against the chains as the metal clinks together and grows tight as it pulls her into the hole in the floor, her eyes wide and manic as she disappears into the ground below. 

Piece by piece, the floor puts itself back together, mending back grain for grain until the boards are once again whole. It doesn’t even appear as though it had been opened up to take Miriam away, and Miriam’s mother lowers her hand, sighing deeply and looking tired and worn. 

The crickets begin to chirp again outside. 

The witch turns to you, her face held carefully blank as she goes to where your chains are locked onto the table. As you flinch, her expression softens. 

“I am not going to hurt you,” she murmurs. 

The look you offer to her only voices your disbelief, and she takes a breath before lifting her fingers, snapping them. 

The chains on both you and Arthur go slack, falling until they clatter against the floor. You instantly go to sit up, and you hear Arthur rip through the fabric of his gag as you lean up from the table. Your feet don’t even reach the floor before Arthur has reached you, grabbing you up into his arms as he snarls at the witch eyes you both almost impassively. 

“You have every right not to trust me,” she starts, “But I only wish to help you now.” 

“Why the sudden change of mind?” Arthur growls, his voice gritter and darker than usual as he places you behind him, “You think I’m just gonna believe that kinda shit?” 

“I will not lie to you now. I have no interest in such a thing,” she begins to explain, “But your mate, she is something that I must see through.” 

Blinking, you echo, “M-Mate—” 

“What do you want from her?” Arthur growls. 

“She is something important. Not just for me, but for you as well, and all of the other myths,” she looks to you then, “My name is Evanora.” 

“You... You’re an old witch,” Arthur murmurs, eyes squinting, “I think I’ve heard of you before.” 

“Most have. I’m much older than looks appear,” she smiles faintly, “As I said, you have no reason in trusting me, but the unfortunate situation is that you have no choice.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Because her transformation is not complete,” Evanora looks at you then, “I’m sure you have felt ill during this time. Fevers, cold sweats...” 

“Yes...” 

“How long has this been going on? And I mean since you almost got to touch the veil of death, only to return to the land of the living?” 

Arthur shakes his head, his hand gesturing before him in his denial, “Now now, she ain’t ever died! You and your crazy daughter got your heads knocked up somethin’ fierce—” 

“The night of the full moon.” 

Arthur stops, turning to you then. 

“W-What?” 

You meet his eyes, your expression solemn as you see Arthur’s features slacken with what looks like a pain you didn’t know the man could feel as he faces you. 

“That night, when you and the others found me in the clearing before Cornwall came... It felt... It felt like I had died. But only for a split second!” Arthur’s face crumples at those words, “It didn’t last long at all before I came back... I... I thought I was just feelin’ things wrong...” 

“The night of the full moon?” Evanora pauses, “A banshee screamed that night. Near Rhodes,” Evanora hums, but she does not break Arthur’s attention from you, “I was trying to investigate to see what caused it. Seems like I found the reason as to why.” 

“Wait... A banshee?” 

“Yes. Usually, a prominent death or major tragedy is what causes a banshee to scream. I was worried that something awful had occurred...” 

“If it was a banshee, and by Rhodes... Grimshaw, the camp— you,” Arthur takes a step closer to you then, his brows pinching as he brings a thumb up to your cheek, as though his touch has to reaffirm that you’re still alive and before him now, “You died... I lost you, and I didn’t even know it...” 

“Lenny used one of his tears on me,” you murmur, “I... I didn’t know I was gone either. Not until now. It didn’t even feel like I left...” 

“You must have only been on the brink, then. It is why your transformation has stalled as it has. You merely were on the verge of getting to the veil, but you have not been draped within it,” Evanora takes a step towards you both, and Arthur growls. 

She smiles, stopping and glancing to you. 

“I can assure you, she can do far worse things than I ever could.” 

You huff, “You keep sayin’ that, but I don’t even know what I’m capable of.” 

“For right now, only a little. Your true powers will not be fully realized until the process is completed,” she turns her attention to Arthur then, “You won’t like how it must be finished, however.” 

Growling, Arthur’s eyes are venomous as they meet Evanora’s, “Reckon I haven’t liked any of this so far.” 

Ignoring Arthur’s bitter commentary, you ask, “What is it?” 

Evanora goes to the table you had been tied down to, and she picks up her tome from where it had been dropped onto the floor. She opens back up to where she and Miriam had been reading it before, and she frowns. 

“There is only one way you can gather your piece of the veil of death.” 

Your eyes narrow on the witch, “And that is?” 

“This time, you would have to die.” 

Arthur roars, the room vibrating with the sound. You wince, making a small sound as Arthur crouches some in front of you, his fangs and nails lengthening. 

“I told you, you wouldn’t like it—” 

“Like hell that is happenin’!” Arthur snarls. 

“It would not be permanent. For she began the process of her transformation when she was on the brink of death. But when that Phoenix pulled her back by using one of his tears, she was not able to go to the veil as she needed. In fact, it is why she is sick. Like everything in nature, she will run her course one way or another, especially now. The process of her transformation has begun, and it aims to find its end. She is slowly dying so that it may reach its resolution, one way or another.” 

Arthur growls and grabs onto your arm, looking at the witch with as much venom as he can muster as she sighs. 

“There is nothing you can do to prevent this. Even if she had remained human. For anything that lives, it must in turn die. And because of her being unable to go to the veil, if she does not finish the transformation, she will only grow weaker and weaker, until she passes on. However, she might be too weak to return, if she is held off long enough.” 

Arthur’s hand grows tight on your arm then, “Why does she have to die to complete this?” 

“Because of what she is to be,” she turns the tome towards you both then, “Take a look at it yourself.” 

Cautiously, Arthur comes forth, and you tail behind him. The pages are opened up to the excerpt she was reading from, and you take in the small illustrations of a six-winged angel, and the fiery plumes of a Phoenix on the margins. 

But then, you see it, the illustration of a being draped in what looks like a cloth made of the stars themselves, their hand glowing much like the moonstone that was once held upon Miriam’s neck. 

Your eyes move up to the golden calligraphy above it, and your breath catches upon the name it has written out. 

Arthur pales beside you, eyes widening as he reads the title just as you do, a small curse leaving him. 

Chuckling lightly, Evanora eyes you with pride that makes the chill of your fate feel colder than before. 

“It is has been a dream of mine to meet one of your kind,” she breathes, “And after all, you cannot become a being of death without taking a piece of its veil with you.” 

“She’s... You’re...” Arthur’s wide eyes land onto you, “You’re a reaper...” 

Your throat goes dry, and you stare at the book before you, almost in a numb state of shock. 

“Your destiny is fated...” 

“But I... I...” you swallow, “I don’t understand...” 

“You nearly died, the night of the full moon. You were in the process, on the brink of death. This is why the banshee screamed. But the Phoenix, he used his tear before you could cross over. They saved you too early before you could cross over from the plane of living to where the veil lies in between here, and the beyond.” 

Shaking your head, you voice your doubts, “But why me? Why not anyone else?” 

“Because there are only two ways that a reaper can be formed. By an angel pulling the human soul back to this plane, or by the power of a tear from a Phoenix. There are the only two pure methods of saving a human soul from death without the use and corruption of dark magic. A reaper’s soul must be untarnished by that sort of vice,” Evanora murmurs, “To be saved in those ways are rare occurrences that seldom happen. In fact, it is said that a reaper is chosen before they are made... and you, you were their choice.” 

Now silent, you can see the twinkle in the witch’s eyes as she looks at you. 

“There is a reason for it,” she whispers, “We must honor their decision.” 

Swallowing, you look to her then, “And how do I do that?” 

“Rabbit!” 

“Arthur, you know as well as I do that what happened the night of the full moon wasn’t normal... It wasn’t like anythin’ we’ve ever heard of... And... You said it yourself. I’m different now. I just... I’d like to be in control of that...” 

Arthur makes a face at that while Evanora’s brow pinches in confusion. 

“What happened?” 

“I— well... It’s complicated to explain it all, but... You know of what happened to Cornwall?” 

Evanora’s face darkens at the mention of the man, “Of course... The man got his just deserves.” 

“Well, I gave it to him,” you say, “I killed Leviticus Cornwall. But I didn’t even need to touch him... It... It’s like I willed it to happen.” 

Evanora’s eyes widen, and she regards you now in a new light. 

“I even melted silver that night,” you murmur, “With just my touch.” 

“Reaper’s are not affected by silver like other myths, as they are more so a deity than anything else. In truth, there is not much a reaper can be affected by. This is why Miriam was a fool to believe she could use you as a sacrifice for her first step into dark magic... You are sacred amongst magic users. Especially ones into the darker side of its coin. Death is an integral part of our magic, and in turn, we respect beings such as yourself.” 

Frowning, Arthur mutters, “Funny way how you show your respect.” 

“While I apologize for my previous grievances, there is not much more I can do but to ensure that the transformation is completed... Reapers, they keep the balance in the living world. They are crucial, and they can only form when they are most needed... And now, we need her more than ever,” Evanora gathers her tome up then, shutting it and placing it in the large satchel at her side, “I must take you to the Moonstone Pond... It is where you both were camped earlier... I saw you through the trees when you were about to step inside of it,” Evanora murmurs as she eyes you, “You were trying to go then, to finish the process.” 

“Why there?” 

“Because it is a special place for beings like you. I will explain more to you on the ride over,” she closes the book, looking to you and Arthur then, “We mustn't waste any more time than we already have.” 

“And why should we come with?” 

Evanora stops from where she was walking towards the door to the room. She pivots, her black robe swaying in the darkness as she comes to a halt. 

Arthur faces her, still standing in front of you then. 

“You were gonna kill us,” he growls, and you see his nails lengthen at his sides as his hands clench, “You were gonna kill _her._ You still are!” 

“Yes. We were. So it is needed to begin walking the path of being a witch involved with dark magic,” Evanora says, unfazed as she tilts her head lightly at Arthur, “But once I realized that there was something different about her, I only wanted to confirm my suspicions. And now that I know she is a Reaper in the making, I will do no more than to help her complete her transition.” 

Bearing his fangs, Arthur’s eyes flash red, “I don’t believe you...” 

Evanora sighs with a chuckle, shaking her head lightly. She glances up to Arthur then, and she raises her hands up to the back of her neck. Arthur hunkers down, ready to pounce and attack when Evanora removes her necklace from her neck. The stone dulls, its opaque light dying much like it had when Miriam’s was removed. 

She then steps forward, holding out the pendant until she stops right in front of Arthur. The werewolf is tense, growling in warning at her as she gestures to him to lift his hand. He does, holding out a palm as she places the pendant into his hand. 

“Witches cannot harness their magic without moonstone,” she tells him, “Without it, you could easily kill me where I stand, and I would have no way to stop you.” 

Arthur looks between her and the dulled stone, and you see as he gauges her then. 

Without any warning, the werewolf grabs the witch by her neck, nail elongated and digging into the witch’s pale skin as Arthur shoves her against the wooden wall of the cabin. The boards at her back creak with the force of her body hitting into them, and your breath catches in your throat as you take in the sight of Arthur holding up Evanora, and the witch grinning tightly at him. 

Blood peeks out in light rivulets from where the sharp tips of Arthur’s nails dig past and into her flesh, the column of her neck held precariously within Arthur’s grip as they stare at one another. 

“I should just kill ya right here, right now,” Arthur rumbles low and heady, “for all the god damn shit you just put us through.” 

“If I wanted you dead,” Evanora’s voice is weathered from the vice Arthur has garnered on her throat, and you can hear just how she struggles to speak, “you would’ve been since the moment I first saw you back at Moonstone Pond. Let alone at Emerald Ranch, with my daughter.” 

“You kept us alive because we had purpose. Don’t matter none that you spared us then, ‘cause you needed to.” 

Evanora’s hand comes up, and her fingers encase Arthur’s wrist. But, there is no direness in her movements, no demand. Just simple understanding, both of Arthur’s rage, and her position from it. 

“If you do kill me, then you must at least take my book and satchel, and head to Moonstone Pond... What it happening to her cannot be stopped just by killing me... This goes beyond all of that...” she lets her hand fall away from Arthur then, “But if you are to kill me, I only ask that you do not hesitate in doing so.” 

Arthur’s brow pinches closely, and you can see his thoughts warring on his mind. You’re unsure of what it is that he is considering exactly, but you believe his decision has been made once you see the muscles in his arm flex and tighten ominously. 

But instead of killing Evanora, the werewolf drops her. 

She falls somewhat to the floor, coughing for a moment as Arthur’s hand falls to his side. His nails are no longer altered, having returned to their short, clipped state to that of a human’s, despite the blood that encrusts their ends. 

“I won’t kill you,” he states, but there is an edge to his voice, “Unless you give me a damn reason to.” 

Coughing, Evanora’s lips split into a smile, and she laughs, the sound a bit of a wheeze from where Arthur held her throat in a vice. 

She stands, coming up to her feet. In Arthur’s other hand, he holds her necklace, the corrupted moonstone she was once wearing held precariously in his hand. She makes no move for it, only smiling softly as Arthur eyes her warily. 

“You may hold onto my moonstone as I help your precious Rabbit,” she smiles gently, “If it gives you peace of mind.” 

Arthur’s lips tighten, but he lowers his palm, clenching it into a fist around the stone to place it inside of his pants pocket. 

“Don’t make me regret this,” he warns. 

Evanora only smiles. 

“I don’t think you will be the one to,” she comments, and steps towards the door. 

Sending a brief look to Arthur, you both follow the witch as she departs from the dilapidated cabin. 

“Your horse is outside alongside ours. Moonstone Pond is not too far from here, but we must still travel with haste,” she begins to explain, wasting no time, “For the new moon is about to arrive.” 

“The moon? What’s that got to do with any of this?” 

“A reaper is all about balance. Life and death, to take or spare, to end or begin. And, as they became a being of death, they were once a human as well,” Evanora begins as she leaves her cabin with you three in tow, “For a reaper, a new moon is when they are the closest to being human, and it limits their powers. With Rabbit not being fully transitioned, and having gone without grabbing her piece of the veil, the new moon could even possibly kill her without her getting a chance to fully transform.” 

You all stop at the three horses gathered outside of the cabin, with you mounting up onto your silver draft, and Arthur with a mustang you believe to have been Miriam’s. Underneath Evanora is a black thoroughbred, and she watches as you and Arthur settle yourselves. 

Growing a bit frustrated as you mount onto your horses, Arthur growls, “I thought you said she is becoming one no matter what I do.” 

“Her body intends to try to complete the process through getting her to the veil. Whether she is successful or not with taking her piece is up to chance. The new moon could make her so weak that she may not be strong enough to do so.” 

“And if that happens?” Arthur dares to ask as you begin to leave the cabin, heading out onto the road leading away from it. 

Evanora pauses, eyeing the werewolf sharply. 

“Then we are all to pay the price,” she spurs her horse harder, “This is why it is so important that she gets to Moonstone Pond to finish her transformation.” 

You frown, not liking what you are hearing as you spur your draft horse, taking up behind Evanora as she leads the way, Arthur riding up at your side, to your right. You feel just as awful as when you road up to the remains of Emerald Ranch, but you push through as you speak to the powerless witch riding point. 

“Why Moonstone Pond, though? W-What’s so special about it?” 

“The Moonstone Pond is the origin of magic. Light and dark. Good, and bad. Magic is also about balance,” she spurs her black thoroughbred forth, the mare underneath her shifting as she glides through the trees. 

As she rides ahead, Arthur grunts from beside you, “You’re tellin’ me that small ass pond was the source of magic?” 

“It _is_ the source of magic,” she states, a little offended at Arthur’s words, “It is the only place that witches, white and dark, can find moonstone. It is like the roots of the first tree to ever grow, for many of us,” Evanora explains, and looking over her shoulder to glance at you, she continues, “You felt a pull there because the moonstone that works as a conduit of our magic is also tied to the phases of the moon. Like a reaper, our powers are limited through nature and her cycles, as well as her two faces. A true white witch is purely about life, where as a dark witch meddles with death. It is why dark witches revere you, and those practicing white magic find respect in your role. And so it is like her cycle,” she then chuckles, “Why, even your beloved werewolf is affected by the moon. She’s curious, in that aspect.” 

You look to Arthur, brows furrowing as you cough, “You never told me new moons bothered you...” 

“They don’t,” he growls defensively. 

“They do. Most animal-based myths are affected. Anything relative to nature, like nymphs or even sprites, are affected by the moon and her cycles,” Evanora’s laugh sounds melodic through the trees, and almost otherworldly, “For werewolves, they always seem to be so moody on new moons.” 

Grumpily, Arthur mutters, “Like you know how werewolves are...” 

“You are foolish to think that I don’t know, or that I haven’t given myself the chance. My magic has kept me alive for hundreds of years. I have been on this plane longer than it took for this forest to sprout and grow, or for this damned country to even form. I knew your kind well before that bastard Cornwall hunted you down like wild mutts for sport.” 

Arthur quiets, and it’s then that the road grows familiar, and you feel that twinge within you, the one you had felt whenever you had looked into the waters of the pond only a few days before. 

“We are close.” 

As Evanora slows her mare as you approach the trees that line the outskirts of the pond, you murmur, “I... I can feel it... like... like it’s callin’ to me...” 

“It has been since the start,” Evanora smiles, “The last reaper came here, alongside the reaper before that. It is tradition that a reaper bathes in the waters of Moonstone Pond. It is a first that one is to receive their piece of veil within it... This will truly be something to witness, even with all of my years.” 

You swallow thickly, and Evanora abandons her seat upon her steed. She stops though, whispering something to her horse. The thoroughbred nods to her, making a slight nose as Evanora runs her hand down the bridge of her horse’s face while you and Arthur finish dismounting. 

“You done bein’ weird?” Arthur asks. 

With a sigh, Evanora steps aside, nodding, “Come... We must begin shortly.” 

You walk behind Evanora, your legs feeling like lead while your mind becomes a haze. It is like whispers pass through the trees, the air humid and growing thicker as you approach Moonstone Pond once more. 

Arthur follows behind you, quiet and cautious, especially as you move on autopilot to where the waters of the pond shimmer and call to you. 

Stopping by the break in the trees, Evanora allows you to walk past her, your eyes trained on the pond as you step forth. She sets her bag that she had taken with her down onto the forest floor below, and she watches on, a pride in her eyes as you step forth in your haze. 

Arthur attempts to follow, but Evanora stops him with a hand on his chest. The werewolf growls, batting at her hand before the witch asserts herself. 

“You cannot follow,” she says, voice low and sounding scratchier as you step forth, only a few feet from the banks of the pond, “She must go alone.” 

“But—” 

“She will know what to do... You must only have faith, and patience.” 

You can hear Arthur continue to argue with her, but their words fade as you stop right in front of the water. Your eyes are glassed over as they peer into the bottom, a familiar sight greeting you. Like before, something glows at the bottom, a soft, yellow light that calls to you. You only hear its beckoning, your hands moving to peel away your clothes from your skin. 

There is a noise behind you, one of both protest and shock, but it doesn’t register, not with the pond right before you. A small rustle of fabric is all you hear as your shirt falls away, landing onto the muddy bank, your skin bore bare and free, the light of the stars above illuminating its expanse as you shed the rest of your clothing on instinct. 

And, as your jeans and boots are abandoned onto the ground beside you, it’s then that you follow the ponds call. 

The water does not feel cold nor warm as you step inside of it, having it lap at your toes and then your ankles as you step inside. The ground at your feet has almost no texture, either, despite it appearing to be a gritty combination of dirt and sand to the naked eye as you trek forth, sinking deeper and deeper until you are up to your chin in water, your hair slowly growing wet from where its ends are submerged, and you finally stop once you reach the middle of the pond. 

There is no sound. Nothing to feel or sense. No thoughts to be had. No desires or regrets. 

Nothing more than the light that shines below your feet, and the call it has to you as you float at the top of the water. 

“Rabbit!” 

You dive. 

You do not close your eyes, and there is no effort to hold your breath as you go below the surface. You are transfixed, and you swim towards it, with no desire to return to the surface. You hear something crash from behind you, but you do not stop. You keep on swimming, the light growing brighter and brighter, and its then that you see a large stone resting at the bottom of the pond, glowing as the necklace against Miriam’s chest when your eyes first laid upon it. 

It’s beautiful, serene, and you keep swimming, with the water seeming almost too far away to touch, yet so close all at once. 

The crashing above you sounds again, and you look up. 

The surface of the water seems almost miles away, and it’s then that you realize just how dark and deep the pond seems to have gone. All that illuminates anything down here is the moonstone at its bottom, and it is only because of its refracted light cast up to the surface that you see Arthur trying to swim to get to you. 

But he can’t. 

And it’s at that moment that you feel the screaming in your lungs, the burn in your muscles, the pressure on your body and the popping in your ears. 

Panic overtakes the trance that had been put upon you, and you gargle, a mess of bubbles frantically rising from your mouth as it feels with the ice-cold water from the pond. Water fills your lungs, and your body only struggles more for it, gagging and causing you only to swallow more water. It’s like your lungs do not understand, making you open your mouth in an attempt to breath, only to just inhale more pondwater, making things worse. 

You try to swim upwards, but your heart clenches in your chest, rhythm uneven and rushed, your body feeling heavy as your eyes sting from both the water and the utter panic you feel. 

Everything is so cold, so heavy. And you realize in utter horror that your arms are struggling to try and pull you further towards the surface. 

You’re drowning. 

Your movements grow weak, and the water grows colder and darker. You begin to sink instead of fight, and a few bubbles escape your mouth as your lungs make one last attempt to clear themselves. Your throat convulses, and your veins burn. Everything feels like it is constricting around you, and like your slowing pulse has centered itself in your skull as your eyelids begin to droop. 

You see Arthur coming closer, but like the stone before, he is still so far away. 

So far... 

He’s not close enough. He won’t be. He never will be. 

Your eyes slip closed. 

And your heart stops.

**\---**

Your eyes open.

A small breath is taken, and to your surprise, there is no burning in your lungs from before, or a need to cough the water that had been swallowed. 

No. You feel just fine. 

But... not alive. 

Brows furrowing, you look around you, finding yourself in a void of gray that doesn’t seem to end to your left or your right, seemingly running along what appears to be a shifting, opal mist before you. Your eyes narrow, and you take a step forward, eyes narrowing upon the mist as it shifts, acting like a barrier between the void to your back and sides, and to what lie beyond. 

“The veil,” you murmur. 

The only absent sound you can hear is the slight tick of your footsteps as you approach, your hand outstretching before you. The mist feels like silk against your fingertips, gliding and shifting organically to your touch as you let out a light breath. Curious, you try to reach through, but realize that you cannot. 

“The veil doesn’t work like that.” 

You jump, hearing a new voice come from behind you. 

Turning abruptly, you come face to face with a woman in a white dress, looking to be almost in her early forties, smiling warmly at you. Her brown hair is shifted into a loose bun, and she eyes you humorously as your breath catches in your throat. 

“You must be the new reaper,” she states, her warm voice kind as she grins softly at you, “Rabbit, I presume?” 

“Y-Yes. Though it’s a nickname,” you murmur. 

“Ah. Well, no matter. A name is always a name, nick or not,” she hums, coming to join you at your side, “Before I passed, my name was Charlotte,” she laughs, humored, “My, it’s been a long time since I’ve even gotten to even say it.” 

You blink, voice a bit wary, “Why not?” 

“Because I’ve been waiting,” Charlotte dips her head, her eyes as warm as her voice, “For you.” 

Taking a step back, you let out an uneasy breath, “For me?” 

“Yes. Well, I wasn’t sure it was you exactly until the moment you showed. But I was waiting all the same,” the mirth in her voice makes your hackles lower some, and for some reason, despite the shock of it all, Charlotte somehow seems to feel comforting to you, especially when her lips split with another smile, “You’re the next reaper, are you not?” 

“Well, I think so. I’ve been told as much,” you glance at the veil as it shifts before you, “But... I’m not so sure, honestly.” 

“You are. You just haven’t taken your piece of the veil. Which, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” 

Swallowing thickly, you dip your head, “I... I didn’t exactly intend to come here like this.” 

“I didn’t either, when it was my time,” Charlotte sighs, “But starving to death with my husband out in the wilds wasn’t my plan, either.” 

Frowning, you whisper, “That sounds awful...” 

“Death usually is. But it is the one guarantee we have in our lives,” Charlotte explains, “Which is why it’s so important to have a reaper. To help keep the balance in life, so that in turn, we may go as we are intended to.” 

You eye the veil cautiously, your voice meek in its presence, “But I don’t know how to do any of this...” 

“Neither did I, when I started.” 

Eyes widening, you look to Charlotte, “You are a reaper?” 

“I was one. There can only be one at a time, and we are replaced once our role is fulfilled,” she smiles solemnly, “A reaper is called upon in great times of death, and fate plays her hand in choosing the right person to take upon that role.” 

“Then why was I chosen?” you ask, you fear evident, “I... God, I was doin’ nothin’ more than helpin’ my parents on the ranch a few months ago...” 

“I can’t tell you why. No one can. Why, I can’t even explain why I was chosen,” Charlotte tells you, “I just remember prayin’ that someone would save my husband and I. That we wouldn’t starve to death, right before we died... An angel heard me, and saved me. But only after I’d passed. I only remember getting ready to pass through with my husband, and the angel ripped me back into the living world.” 

You stay quiet, hearing the sadness in Charlotte’s voice. 

“I tore a piece of the veil in the process, and low and behold, when I came to, I was the newest reaper...” she lets out a breath, “And I have been for the past hundred years or so, up until the end of the great war.” 

“But why are they changing you now? When they need you most?” 

“Because, just like everyone, there is a time in which we must pass on, and that someone else takes the place we left behind. As it is in nature, it will be here, too,” she murmurs, “This war on myths... it is killing too many souls, human and not. There has never been a greater time of despair and passing in many years, not even when I tried to absolve the fighting... But now, there is something worse on the horizon for the plane of the living. Something that you must stop... I have done what I can for as long as I can... And now... it goes to you.” 

Tearful, you bite your bottom lip, “But I don’t know how to save everyone...” 

“You will. You can,” Charlotte places a brief kiss on your forehead, and a warmth passes through you, leaving you breathless as she leans back, “This is the knowledge that I carried with me during my time as a reaper, alongside the knowledge of those who came before me. It is a gift, and it will help you do what you can to help restore balance in the living world as best as you are able... Don’t fret. Don’t worry. I know that you will do well. When you come to in the plane of the living with your piece of the veil, you will know what to do.” 

Frowning, you are barely audible under your breath, “But how do you know?” 

“You wouldn’t have been chosen, otherwise.” 

You look to the veil, still feeling overwhelmed and scared, but you take a deep breath, eyeing the mist and clenching your fists at your sides. 

“Then what do I have to do?” 

“You must take a piece, as we all have,” Charlotte instructs, “The veil does not part on its own. It must be done by choice, with force. It is this way so that the souls who pass through are ones that are ready to move on. Once you have your piece, you must walk away, as you will not be able to cross over to the other side.” 

Nodding, you step forward, stopping directly in front of the veil as you once were. It still feels like silk against your fingertips as you grab it with both hands. Behind you, Charlotte watches, remaining quiet as you begin to pull the veil apart. 

You can feel it separate, giving way to for a small hole at first, but as you pull, it grows as grows. There is some slight resistance, but the more that you pull, the easier that it separates. The mist clears, and it’s then that you can see the other side. 

It takes your breath away, and your eyes widen while you stop. 

“The beyond will be there for you, when your time comes,” Charlotte whispers, “You mustn’t stop.” 

You drop your eyes to the veil held within your hands, and you focus on ripping it apart. It isn’t until there is a hole big enough for you to walk through that you pause, letting out a breath as you look into the beyond that lies past the mist and veil that obscures it. 

You stare for a moment longer, until Charlotte breaks your focus. 

She walks by you, making you drop one side of the veil as she moves past. Your mouth opens as she crosses, her smile beaming as she steps into the beyond, looking as happy as she could ever be. Her clothes change, going to a simple blue dress as she sighs, looking out to the paradise that awaits her. 

And yet, she pauses, turning back to look at you. 

“It’s been a long time that I’ve waited to do this...” she murmurs, “You can only part the veil yourself once... and as a reaper, you have to wait for the next one to do it for you... And now, here you are.” 

She laughs, tearful and happy in a way that shines through her soul. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs. 

You aren’t sure what to say, but you frown, feeling the veil begin to close. 

“Grab your piece before it closes,” Charlotte instructs, “Rip it, and walk away...” 

“But—” 

“Arthur is waiting for you,” she states, smiling softly as the hole you ripped begins to mend itself, “Just know that he always will.” 

The hole grows smaller, and your left staring after Charlotte as she turns, walking down the path that leads further into the beyond. 

You call after her, but she does not turn, instead walking further on to where you see a man waiting for her further down the path. 

The rip in the veil quickly begins to mend as she passes, and you blink, going to the side that you are still holding, and pulling. The veil parts in the opposite direction, and for your efforts, it seems to fix itself faster the more you pull onto it. It makes your motions frantic as you yank and tug, going to tear the piece that you have in your hand as the veil attempts to mend itself before you can take the sliver you try to claim as your own. 

Yanking back, you hear a snapping noise, and the force of your pull causes you to fall backwards. You land harshly, your hands gripping onto your piece of veil as you look up. 

Where you had once parted it is now completely back together, with no signs of you having taken the piece that rests in your hands. It shifts just as the veil does, still feeling of silk and appearing misty as you eye it and its source before it. 

Cautiously, you stand, going up to the veil before you, and pressing your fingertips against it. 

Instead of giving way, you feel the veil press back against your fingertips, and it seems to shift to where you cannot grab it properly. Charlotte’s words ring out in your head, and you breathe roughly, holding the piece you managed to rip in your hands with a damning sense of finality. 

So. 

This is it. 

Swallowing, you turn, looking behind you now for the first time since you arrived here. The gray slowly shifts into black, and your skin prickles with goosebumps as you eye the endless void that waits before you. 

Gripping onto your piece of the veil, you begin to approach it, walking away as Charlotte instructed. 

Your piece of veil shifts in your hands as you begin to get encased with the black abyss before you, and you only hold onto it tighter as you are lost to its darkness. 

A twinge. 

A jolt. 

Cold. Dark. 

There is nothing here. Nothing at all. 

This... this is purely death. 

Death with no end. 

“Rabbit!” 

A shift, a press. 

Warmth as fleeting as it is scorching, pressed against your lips. 

“Rabbit, god dammit, please!” 

Slowly, there is a pounding that begins to grow, feeling like a slight pressure in your chest until it grows and grows, aching in your ribs and burning in your lungs. 

“_Don’t you dare fuckin’ die on me!”_

A gasp. 

Your eyes open, and you immediately begin to cough up water onto the ground beside you. You pathetically lurch, your throat burning as your body struggles to either rid your lungs of water, or to fill them with air. It is a frantic kind of gasping and coughing, and you feel arms encase you as your body struggles to right itself. 

Through blurry eyes, you look to your side, finding Arthur wide-eyed and frantic looking. His hands unsteady and dancing nervously across you until they finally settle. The werewolf’s fingers grip tightly along your arms, water coating and saturating you both. 

“You...” 

“You ‘bout drowned to death, you idiot!” Arthur scolds, but underneath the slight tinge of anger, all you hear is fear, a terror at such a prospect. 

“I...” you look down to your hands, but the piece of the veil you had been carrying is nowhere to be seen, “I thought I did...” 

“You did, child.” 

Your eyes snap upward, and you come upon an old woman. Her smile crinkles the lines in her face, her long gray hair shifting in the night breeze just as it brings a chill upon your skin. 

Squinting, you let out a shocked breath of recognition as you take in the silvery scars along her skin. 

“Evanora...” 

Arthur looks to her, confused and cagey, “What the hell is happenin’ to you?” 

“I told you, my magic is what kept me alive... Without the moonstone, I am without my magic. And so time is able to take her due,” she murmurs, voice cracking. 

Not hesitating, you reach for her moonstone, grabbing it out of Arthur’s pocket and leaving the man to splutter behind you as you rush to the aging woman. 

“Here,” you hold her necklace out, slightly pleading, “Take it.” 

“No, child. I have served my time, and gave it purpose,” Evanora smiles, and she looks to you, shaky and unsteady from the wear her joints now carry, “There is not an honor better than to have assisted a reaper with coming into their own.” 

You frown, your fingers clenching around Evanora’s necklace tightly, “But my piece of the veil... I had it, before I came to. It's gone now...” 

“It didn’t leave you, child,” Evanora taps your chest lightly, the motion weak and frail, and you feel a slight twinge under your skin, something responding in kind to her, “It is in your soul. The veil is not of this plane nor of physicality. It is part of the spirit.” 

You go to open your mouth, but before a single word can slip past your lips, the with collapses. Rushing to catch her, you manage to spar the woman a harsh crash into the forest floor below, and you curse as Arthur comes up beside you. 

“My time... it’s coming,” she whispers, and the smile on her face is small, resolved as it is humbling, “Just as it should be.” 

“Evanora... It doesn’t have to be now...” 

“No, no. I have grown tired, it is high time I grow old and finish this life for as long as I’ve lead it," she murmurs, “I’ve done many bad things, and little good. Tis’ the path of a dark witch... It’s high time I also face my fate.” 

Frowning, you whisper, “What about Miriam?” 

“I sent her to a coven. She will be taken care of and taught to be proper. And if she is deemed unworthy of magic, then she will be forced to spend her life as a human... I can think of worse things to happen to her, especially with the greed she carries... I have done what I’ve could. With her, and everything else.” 

The old woman’s breaths rattle her chest, and she sighs, growing colder in your arms. You feel something in your chest shift, reacting to her then, and a slight tingle works from the ball of your shoulder and down your arm until you feel a warmth gather in your palm. 

“Am I to be your first?” Evanora asks quietly, eyes growing dull and pale and sightless as she looks to the stars above, her cracked lips breaking into a smile, “The first soul you send into the beyond?” 

Your voice cracks as your hand settles onto her chest, and your eyes water as you murmur, “Y-Yes...” 

“Ah,” Evanora laughs lightly, the sound weak and brief, but you can see the celebration she carries with her at the knowledge, “How lovely...” 

Arthur grimaces as you watch Evanora take her last breath, her chest stilling and her skin growing cold. Her eyes are now glassy, and he skin almost resembles wax as you hold her in your arms, a few of your tears falling onto your skin. 

You can hear the faint whisper on the wind, one only for you to hear as it’s finished. Evanora’s final words play out in your mind, and you take note as Arthur watches her body lie still in your arms. 

“Rabbit, she...” Arthur murmurs, “She’s gone...” 

Removing your hand from her chest, you feel the warmth that had gathered in your hand abate with its retreat, Evanora’s final words getting lost to the sound of cicadas and crickets, “I know...” 

“You—” Arthur pauses, voice growing thick as he swallows, “You did it... Didn’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

Arthur is quiet as you hold onto Evanora’s body, her necklace still in your hand as he breathes, eyes lingering on the stone as his air grows heavy. 

“If... If I had known that she would’ve—” 

“It was her choice,” you tell him, voice growing tight as you shut her eyelids, “She knew what was to happen the moment she offered you keep it. This end was by her design.” 

Arthur’s words die on his lips, and he stares at her lifeless body. 

“What are we to do with her?” 

You say nothing. Instead, you let that warmth from before surge into your left hand, and you press your palm against Evanora’s icy skin on her chest. 

Arthur watches as her body shifts, and underneath your palm it changes. Soon, it is nothing but exposed bone, and it crumbles to a dust underneath your touch, going down into the soil and becoming one with the earth. 

You hear Arthur curse as your hand rests against the soil, and all around it, red wildflowers sprout and begin to bloom. Their petals are as soft as the moonlight as you remove your hand, and you look up to see him eyeing you like a stranger. 

“Jesus,” he breathes. 

“Come on,” you state, standing, “She left us her items to take. Her horse included.” 

Frowning, Arthur comes after you, dripping wet and having his clothes cling to his skin as he voices his protest, “Whoa whoa whoa, she never told us any of that...” 

“She told me, while I was helping her... It was her final wish, before she could pass through the veil,” you explain, “I plan to honor it.” 

The werewolf still seems doubtful as he follows you, and as you go over to where your clothes lie upon the ground, you can hear the werewolf splutter from behind you. Lifting your shirt, you toss it out, looking over to the man to find him pitifully averting his eyes. 

“Oh please, don’t tell me you’re just now getting a conscience about me bein’ undressed.” 

“Rabbit, it’s not— this ain’t really somethin’ I should be seein’...” 

Rolling your eyes lightly, you put your shirt onto your person, and you put your pants onto your body, feeling a little better already for it. Once you’re deemed appropriate enough to view, Arthur’s eyes shift to you, and his nose wrinkles, taking in your sent. 

“You... You’re different.” 

Humming lowly, you finish sliding one of your boots onto your feet. 

“Seems that I would be, considering...” 

“No, I mean, it’s obvious you’re not human anymore, but... you seem different. You smell different.” 

Slowly a little as you place your other boot onto your foot, you glance at the other myth. 

“What do I smell like?” 

“Like... like... I’m not sure how to describe it... It’s like you smell like life n’ death, all at once.” 

Your brows furrow, “Way to describe it, Arthur...” 

“Well I mean it is like that, but... it’s like leaves on the ground during the fall, or wildflowers that bloom in the spring. A ton of scents from times where things end or begin... at all once.” 

With your boot not situated onto your foot, you murmur, “A reaper is about keeping balance between the living world, and the plane we go to beyond. I suppose it’s only fittin’.” 

Arthur still seems at a loss as you step past him, going to where the trees begin to sprout up again. You grab the bag that Evanora had left for you and Arthur, and you open it, placing her necklace inside before you close the canvas flap and tie it shut. 

Arthur comes up from behind you, still dripping wet. 

“But... what are we doin’ now, after all this?” 

“We’re gonna find the gang, and you’re gonna stay with them,” you say simply, placing the bag onto your back, “Because somethin’ bad is about to happen, and I gotta somehow stop it.” 

“Wait, what do you mean I’m stayin’ with them?” 

You begin to walk away, shouting over your shoulder as Arthur chases after you, “There’s too many things at play now, Arthur... I... I know what’s comin’. I’m not sure what to do, but... I just know it’s somethin’ I have to take care of now...” 

As you start to walk through the trees, Arthur grabs onto your arm, pulling you back to look at him. A breath escapes you as you take in his contorted expression, and the werewolf lets his hand fall away as he speaks. 

“Rabbit... just talk to me.” 

“We don’t have much time,” you whisper, “I was made into a reaper for a reason. And that reason is that this war between myths and humans, it’s about to go further than anyone ever imagined.” 

The man scowls, asking, “What do you mean? How do you know this?” 

“I just... When I was made into a reaper, I met Charlotte. She was the reaper before me... She gave me her memories, and the memories that were passed down from each reaper that came and went from the beginning. She knew what was to happen, and now I do.” 

Frowning, Arthur shakes his head, “That just doesn’t—” 

“They tried, with the first war,” you state, voice unwavering, “They are trying again. Especially with Cornwall having died, and it throwing the world back into chaos. Everything that has happened was with purpose, from having your kind get hunted to near extinction, to even having Cornwall take me the night of the full moon so that I could become the reaper... All of it Arthur, it’s been their design. Charlotte managed to stop them the first time, and now I have to try and stop them myself.” 

“Stop them? Stop who?” 

“The other three horseman,” you murmur. 

Arthur’s face pales, and you can see his disbelief begin to grow, “Wait... no... You mean... _Those_ Horseman?” 

Beginning to walk back to the road, you hum, “If you’re referencing the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, then yes.” 

You can hear Arthur walking after you, “But... surely that’s bullshit, right? The Apocalypse? Ain’t that a bit more of a heaven and hell type thing?” 

“It’s about to be our thing, Arthur. The other three horseman are here. They have been for a long while. And now, they’re about to get what they’ve been waiting for.” 

You come up on the road, and all that is there is the black thoroughbred that Evanora had been riding. The silver draft and the mustang that Arthur had ridden on are gone, and the werewolf curses, looking up and down the road in the dark. 

Confused, Arthur mutters, “Where in the hell did they run off to?” 

“We didn’t need those two horses anymore.” 

Eyes shifting to you, Arthur grimaces, and he walks up to the black thoroughbred, “But Evanora’s horse...” 

“She left it to us. Well, mostly to you.” 

Frowning, Arthur goes up to the mare, petting along her jet-black coat, “Did she figure you’d walk?” 

Smiling softly, your voice is quiet on the wind as you respond to the werewolf. 

“No... I already have my own...” 

“Your own?” 

Whistling, you know the moment your horse answers. The air grows cold, and you hear Arthur shiver behind you as he looks up to the end of the road to his right, his skin pricking with goosebumps as you hear your new horse neigh in the distance. The forest grows quiet, and a fog slowly rises and collects at the curve of the road, coating it further from where it curved into the obstruction of trees. 

The fog rolls further forth, and you can hear Arthur mutter something to himself as the faint sound of a horse galloping to you grows closer. 

Each hoof fall is a soft thud onto the ground, growing until you can feel the earth slightly reverberate with it. The fog rolls, wisps curling into itself as the air shifts, and your horse emerges. 

The first thing you come to notice are its eyes, a pale blue that almost emits an eerie light as it looks to you, the wisps of its off-white hair falling into its face as it gallops forth. The air garners a slight chill, and you see the breaths that the horse takes, the ghostly mist that emits from its nostrils as it breaths a direct contrast the black of its coat on its face. 

As it slows, coming to a stop in front of you, you can see the rest of its frame. The horse is a mare, and similar with her hefty stock to that of a Nokota. Her overall coloration is like nothing you ever seen, with her flanks being the lightest and only part of her that does not transition from a chestnut brown to black. Her contrasting flanks are an unearthly gray color, one that shares a likeness to the thick fog that follows behind her like a veil. 

The mare slows, coming to a stop right before you. She shifts a little on her feet, and you take a deep breath, the air feeling cold and smelling of sage as it settles in your lungs. 

Cautiously, you bring a hand to her coat, and you can _feel_ the moment she accepts your touch. 

And touching her, it was as though you were running your fingers over silk. 

Drawing your hand away from the mare, you quietly hum in understanding. 

At your side, the werewolf eyes you both with trepidation. 

“That...” Arthur studies the horse harshly, frowning deeply and looking unsettled, “That ain’t a normal mare...” 

“No... She isn’t,” she murmurs, “But then again, her rider isn’t normal, either.” 

“’Scuse me?” 

Without hesitation, you grip onto the side of the massive mare, and she remains steady and accepting below you as you begin to mount her. Arthur watches in plain shock, jaw dropping slightly as you position yourself along the mare’s bare back before you stroke along her neck. 

“She’s...” he breathes, “You...” 

The werewolf looks to you, eyes glistening. 

“I looked and behold an ashen horse...” his hand comes up to his face, trembling as it wipes at his sweaty skin, “Oh my god... She’s... she’s one of the four.” 

You nod, voice cracking. 

“And so am I.”

**Author's Note:**

> prompt me, ask me like google, and submit shit at:  
sunshinexlollipopts.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> this was written to:  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AoQO_5AjI2k


End file.
